Yang and Yin

from this week in July, 1970 (I was 25)

 

         Yang and Yin

I’ve crept before along the ocean shore

and wondered there across its sloping floor.

Many a time I swore its pulsing brine and blood

of mine were one, union of mother and son.

Yet, that notion is an earthly bond of elements,

and deeper than its deepest reach

thoughts breach like discontented spirits

who grope toward steeper slopes, like bubbles

bounding from sunken fountains, ever whispering

“up the mountains, up the mountains.”