sandcrossings
In late-night hours,
I sit in my green hammock
made of rope, becoming young
as I grow old. I push
my toes into the sand and
sway, cradled between the
tamarind and weathered corner
beam. I decide I am the tree
and not the post.

I've heard that it's cold where you are.
Above my tangled sack, the moon pulls.
The stars dance, like midwives of
the sky in ritualistic flames. Crashing
booms of waves kiss the shore
open-mouthed.

Sands of nearly oyster white
hold a bookmark at the crossing
where we stood, wrapped
against the ocean's gust,
wrapped in time polarized
by time. It marks the
crossing of two
and holds a place
for your return, for the soft voice
of ocean and the whisper of
your watercolor eyes.


Mia Moore