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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) (Somewhere along the waterfront) Leather soft and tailored sleek, you wear the skin of deer and the shade of my hair tanned darkly golden by the evening sun. Half-zipped, your jacket keeps out the sea wind and lets my shadow rest on your shirt. We have walked the pier at least a mile now and stand watching each other as sea gulls stitch a pocket of forsaken time around us. Though strangers, we sense the familiar hint of longing that haunts the boy riding the seahorse in stone, the oil rigs pitching their cranes toward the wave. I might think they are compass needles pointing backward to years when another man sported leather, a bomber's jacket scratched and rumpled from use, its style breathing through the same charcoal gray his girlfriend sketched on paper. He wore the shade of her talent, the warmth her face rubbed on clothing issued for war. Head pressed against his shoulder, they became a moment's soft sculpture, perishable art where only feelings last -- creasing time, slipping through the wide sleeves of sky and water. And as of now, so do we. To know more about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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