The sea is long
cold and warm
but ever wet,
beating and ever moving
in time with
the pulls
into eternity.

I watch the pressures
of plates rise the mountains
in a slow dance begun
before my eldest fore-bearers
began to squirm
towards them.

we stay, and die
and conquer and still
there is that which continues
without us, our perception--

constancy defined
not by actions or commotions
but by the beating
of one's heart