She was so small,

sitting on the beach

somewhat focused

dragging her fingers

through the sand

not exactly oblivious

to others nearby

but focused on the pattern

and the sound of the waves

It was somehow years ago

but also just now,

a place in the moment

where time is irrelevant

and there is nothing

but the pattern

and the thrum of her heart

Her body’s edges blurred

sinking slightly into the sand

but her fingers didn’t stop

making circles

as the waves and her heart

kept up the flow

of the pattern keeping

the tide and time at bay

The world narrows

to where two sleeves cross,

where one wrist touches another

and hands entwine.

Feeling the warmth of skin

and solid bones resting together

in such a way

that makes the heart aware

of the pulse of lovers.

The pace of cozy quiet

and daydreams of scenes passing by

amount to a shared language

of all the unspoken things

while holding hands.

The hum of a bass

from a car passing by,

a loud thumping strumming within

A gale howling like a animal

looking to break free of the forest

but caught in shivering branches

A heart pounding with deep feeling

thoughts stolen from another time

where hope sounds like thunder

After rush hour, after the storm,

after loving, when alone time has come,

lights turn blue from sky to sea

The hum of waves and wind

pull and push while love keeps at it

beneath a dallying sun and moon

A light flickering in the foggy night

with no moon or night bird

to keep time. Just a stream

somewhere just out of sight

heard like a song almost forgotten.

We don’t forget

but feel the memories

like taking off a watch, finding

the band has imprinted on skin.

The time is still there

when we close our eyes.

A tree plays with moonbeams

to the frogs’ delight below.

There is no end to a song

when it’s picked up and carried

even on the quietest night.

At the pond

with frogs, herons, and evergreens,

I don’t feel so ungainly

with my heart spilling out

and thoughts floating like leaves

making ripples on still water.

Here is a place for instinct and fate

with no judgment,

a cycle of growth and sleep

laid out like a story’s arc

to follow through air sweet with spring

after a cold winter.