Harbor

The sentinel of the age
births the harbinger of the next,
and the contractions of place
and time shake the root
of the world.
Soon, the ocean will swell,
will carry the embryo out;
it will writhe and bleat and
thrash itself, if only to escape
the preordained return.
After, songs of silver and fairy-tongue
shall soothe its fraying mind, shall
breathe wind into lung once more.
But, for now,
the sentinel cradles its daughter,
tracing familiar lines
on a new face — already playing the oracle.
Already weeping for the
coming whirlpools.