The finite person in me speaks with words of stone,

confined by flesh, myself am locked in bone;

but in me lies the infinite, the waters are my word,

and where there is a running tide, there my voice is

heard.

My voice is in the shadowed wind,

my voice awaits you here,

my voice is still within my mouth,

and still my voice draws near.

So if I speak to pass a day, these words alone

are not my only sense, for in their tone

lie porous hints of all before, and now, and later heard

when falling rain and rising sea bring back again the

word.