Love becomes a boat
First found in fog
catpaw prints edging in
close within the wake of us.
Seemed what rocks were about
and all about the sand and you.
Course this said all from
my meager point of view.
And kindness of itself
blows no offshore breeze.
So what's a poor sailor to do?
Counting grains upon the beach
she loves me, she loves me not,
had come to seem vocation
in itself even if reluctantly.
Dark becomes dawn
and doesn't even ask.
Those childish hands that seemed
splashed water into mermaid shapes,
all along the breadth and time
of our long watching there.
We did what sailors do.
Having nothing else, that alone
our best ability and readiness
for this tendered craft.
We built our boat from sand.
Set red sails and have
not been heard from since.
Least not so's you'd recognize,
not since love became a boat.
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