always there are the waves,
at Isla Negra
unless you understand the
motion of the rocks
as they stir
against the pounding surf
you will never understand
the motion of
loving a place
or a woman,
each moves
in their own way, undulating
like willows
high up
on cliffs as they extend
their branches downward,
enticing you
as do the waves
at the Isla Negra
so many colours,
so many rhythms,
so many songs
heard
and unheard
known only in the heart