Sunday, February 19, 2012

Pulling at granite roots

Love hovers in the mist,
it smells of salt,
a crisp sheet
spread across your body.

To hold you and let you go
the way kelp grapples rocks at low tide
pulling at granite roots,
till the rubbery grip tires
and leaves float,
swaying to an oily surface.

Who knows when
Love begins it’s journey?

Perhaps it’s with the simple absence of a breeze,
and the future marked
by a drunken thread of footprints
along a beach.

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