There is a place where the spirit goes
a pocket in between the ocean and the sky
slips past in a flash of blue and is gone
it was November
they stood silhouetted against the horizon
tossing pink roses into the waves
the aftermath
was a mirage of footprints and petals
each grain of sand encapsulated eons
ground down to dust
each petal
a delicate mapping of life in its moment of bloom
gulls circled over head
a young shell collector filled his pockets
and wandered into the wind.
– Lisa Kagan –
|