I think of a flamenco skirt
slowly sinking beneath the water.
As in one final dance, the fabric
wrings itself of its woes
and when it softly lands,
yielding to a new condition of being
compressed by boundless volume,
gladly forgets the world prior.
Encompassed in the wild life
of endless mystery, the skirt,
now a threadbare soul,
allows itself to drift;
not wishing to be current,
nor the wave, but knowing always
it was the ocean who answered: