Green Sea Turtle

She’s more of an olive-brown.
Her turquoise liquid city
glitters around her,
peddling fresh jellies and sea-
cucumbers, algae
and treasure-filled seagrasses
while she paddles through
its mottled streets that
morph and swell and
dwarf—ever-changing
with the far-off tide.

I think of her swimming
in shafts of amber light
that festoon down
like harp strings
as if messages
from the sun—
as if the sun and the turtle speak
in a language of light
they twang in unison
between their blue spectrums
on luminous musical wires.

I think of her
paddling her weathered shell
through the strings
and ringing thrums
deeper than joy or sadness:

I think of her sometimes
when I sing the same song.