two miles from the wharf, the sea died honestly
the last white surge collapsed onto itself like
the last sigh of a small town i once knew
there grew a slate grey calm in me as i watched the
sea flatten into sky
the sound of waves hitting the bow disappeared
into thoughts of Della
coarse hands that is her history
held mine as we walked the property line
a mile up the mountain to the stream where her crock was
she put the rifle down
turned and in a moment held my face
to look inside
she asked questions
my eyes following the deep furrows from her eyes
to a sturdy jaw
asked about love
as she didn’t understand it
on our knees we cleared the crock of fall leaves
and storm blown branches
the gravity flow would be clear of distraction this winter
we laid together listening to the stream
the last of the leaves played a sweet tune above
as we curled into each other
our moans a third part harmony amongst a murmured
symphony that surrounded us
later there was soft laughter
thermos tea and sandwiches
our backs against a maple
we spoke of fortune in the moment
our eyes fixed on each other
on now
understanding that tomorrow doesn’t exist
yet our histories have put us together
and will alter our futures
after three days at sea i walked from the wharf
to the gravel as the heaven’s opened to rain
mixed with tears
to the truck and the long way home
keeping to the back roads where their history
in my short time back
has altered me yet again
