I see a man.
His fists are open because they can now hold nothing,
skin spotted and cracked, in reverence to the sun.
He holds them upright, like a man in worship.
He wonders why even the wind avoids his
fingertips
I see a woman.
She still stands on the shore,
for it is not yet her time.
Each morning,
including this one
She allows the sand a hiding place
beneath her porcelain feet.
She is not yet allowed to touch the water.
The day the man
becomes a sailor.
He hears no waves, nor smells the salt.
Darkness hugs his eyelids
like a humble beast
unaware of his strength.
feeling each syllable like a flower petal
The gardens of which color his horizon
And he is free.
How easy it is to slip into the water.
