What’s Beneath The Surface

If you were someday

to rise out of the foaming waters of the sea

to count the stones and broken shells of my heart,

 

If you were to listen there

and to separate the gull’s cry

from the sucking sounds of stones beneath inhaling waves,

 

If only you were there at night

when shivering stars gaze with longing,

if you added your breath to the wind that tangles my hair

 

And strokes my neck with cold fingers,

then you would lift the pebbles to expose the sand

ground to softness by weather.

 

Once home in your room

you would put the spiraled shell to your ear

and listen to my whispered lament.

 

You would unwind the ribbon of kelp

from your heart and reveal the cords

that bind it to my own.

 

The Taste of the Wind                                                                                              

(a haiku sequence)

 

Milk in a tin can

Your voices softly argue

Moonlight floods the snow.

 

The moon’s melon slice

On the bowl’s other rim,

A bleeding yolk.

 

Timid steps at dawn

Beneath the rumpled blankets

Parents softly snore.

 

In a white kitchen,

Three bowls of dreaming people

The silence of dawn.

 

An orange squirts juice,

Dried egg between the fork’s prongs

Your breakfast farewell.

 

Fog before my eyes,

Your voice like tiny scissors

Through the paper storm.

 

Wet by the shore’s edge

The memory still lingers,

Pebbles cupped in rock.

Weak voice on phone line

I hear you slipping from me

Chimney smoke shadow.

 

Pen slips from my grip

Trace words with moistened fingers

Words vanish in air.

 

I wait in silence,

Shabby couch and smoke-stained walls

Dust collects in tufts.

 

Lone fir in moonlight

Long years I listen for you                                                                                         

Still the waves suck stones.

 

The pines remember

Your whisper on a cold night

The taste of the wind.