I Send Out This Paper Boat
August now, and three years --
four? -- since I've touched
your arm, heard that river-
bed voice. I grow old,
my hair lengthens and thins
at once, gray at the temples.
My body declines in every
sense. Our lives so far
apart, this sea too wide
for even dreams to bridge.
Both our beaches littered
with shards, lovers left
and leaving, broken shells
of expectations and demands.
There are wars between us;
storm and flood and deadly
drought; a long, desolate
peace. Our lives thin down
to this: one or two tenacious
friends, deep-rooted against
time, against wind and loneliness.
A few sparse lines in a Chinese
painting: one tree clings to the cliff,
branches stunted and bent; sea-
battered, salt-worn, but still
it holds. It holds.
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
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