Digging in the garden I find
but earthy loot: worms, beetles,
pebbles and ocean shells
and a blackened shard to cast away
for luck and there in the shade
of a supple palm, taking hold
where it should not be, a girl:
I think of Phaiakia and Nausicaa
washing her clothes for some
beggar like me, rough-hewn
in all but speech and she lingers
beside the pool, wondering
if it be a god or beast or bard
that shapes her soul seaward
to be free. She looks and looks,
not believing what she sees
or what she feels. He tells her
of a younger, stranger man
who will come for her
when the spell is broken
and she as wild as the sea.