Scraping the Hull

When the roar of distant shore

Ceases to please this pale frame

The will of Life will have bore

Down, erasing one lettered name.

What is is stripped away to the core

And, at once, is what once came.

As the tide widens its shore

Nothing remains the same.

No niche of beach, no floor

Of sand, no one fine grain

Would deny Nature’s check and chore

On her wild, weak, or tame.

Blown open is her rumored door

Whose inner room, quite plain,

Is full of breath that breathes no more,

That breathes no more with blame.

The tide will rise again at four—

The shore cleared of that unclaimed.

Just out of reach, this Spirit will soar

And soar beyond all pain.

[from the Maine series]