I peer into the page: the letters, small,
And gently I forgive the tricks they play:
They seem a lamp’s reflection on the wall.
I’ll cast them like a net in the brackish bay
And haul at least a few drops’ glint to show,
Yet on the shore, those too will drip away.
The rest - to silt, into the dark below:
That smell of snow, laughter while the house slept,
A gaze as quiet as warm embers’ glow.
I write. The table in the room has kept
One autumn leaf, now no one’s, laid aside,
That might have burned with all the others swept.
It lost its rustle - meaning stayed inside:
The wind won’t know it, though its veins remain.
Words - a rope bridge where the chasm yawns wide.
I scoop the sea into cupped hands - they drain,
Just salt on my fingers. Foam begins to spill.
I breathe it in - it sighs in every vein.
The book is closed: simply feel - and feel it still.