Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Water On Glass

by Kanani Fong

And the tide surged toward the shore,
gathering strength as it drew near, dissipating
into a soft table of moving calm and the woman,
with eyes the color of water on glass, wondered if he
was on a distant shore, separated by an ocean, beyond the equator,
over the Mariana Trench; is he walking along the shore, breathing the crusty air,
feeling the swirls of water around his ankles, the sand between his toes, can he sense that I am with him, I hope that he is--for this is what bonds us now, this water, this air and the waves that rush to me; she waited, closing her eyes, and when his embrace came to her
in the wind whispering through her silver hair she knew, someday,
when her work was done and the pink rose bloomed,
they'd make footprints together, find shells, sand dollars,
and carry them in his overturned hat,
she bent to pick up worn pieces of glass--blue white and green, the edges gritty yet smooth from the tumbling of water on sand, and she thought yes, this is what life is about, waiting for time to wear roughness away until there is no more hurt;
this is what she thought while walking along the shore
missing him, breathing him, never wavering as
her thirst for him grew deeper and bluer,
then as if summoned, a gentle noise rushed toward her
and the strongest wave lifted her from the grains of sand,
as the woman, with eyes the color of water on glass,
drifted with the current to his sea.