Through waning afternoons we glide
The watery peripheries of love.
A silence, a quietude falls.
Above us–the sagging pavilions of clouds.
Below us–rough pebbles slowly worn smooth
Grate in the gentle turbulence
Of yesterday’s forgotten rains.
Later, the moon like a virgin
Lifts her stricken white face
And the waters rise
Toward some unfathomable shore.
We sway gently in the wake
Of what stirs beneath us,
Yet leaves us unmoved…
As though twilight might blur
The effects of proximity and distance,
As though love might be near–
As a single cupped tear of resilient dew
Or a long-awaited face.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly