ISSUE: Spring 1938
TO A WAVE
Omy foam-winged brother flying on the sea, leaping to embrace me, do not smother me !
Brother,
You are older.
Your green arms are strong.
Ride me on your shoulder and sing the wander-song that kept you lost so long.
Now that you are homing, ever shall you be done with ocean-roaming and company for me . . . and mother will be combing your snarls out tenderly.
