They Wait For An Epiphany To Wash In

Nostalgia-induced work with ties to a landscape.

The words are a flow beyond the build of the sea-borne,

not mine, but owned, before they could reach out and take hold.

Scuffing the soles of our shoes on the sidewalks, we're still young

and there's always time to dance in the undertow,

so long as it'll have us.


Out past the shoreline and the depths of the shallows

 -       where the boats were tied

just down by the dock, both hands deep in pockets

 to keep them from r e a c h i n g,


we would move our feet to the sound

of the swallows in the trees so very far above us.

We would whistle, (just like the restless do)

as if it were the birds that we were teaching,

there in the daylight, we would linger,

sway back and forth while the water spoke in tongues.


Hypothesized one day that out past the shoreline

were stored all the answers to the questions

that no ever really asks, and you said matter-of-fact,

"they'll want them, - one day they'll be back."

Then you laughed, like you could see the lone figures

combing the beaches at high tide, eyes held wide

for some trace of their own lost libation,

drunk off of the first and second subjugation

of all the things that they had loved.


The End

3 comments about this poem Feed