Spanning Time
(Poem by Wendy Howe )

At six-thirty,
the sun rises
grasping bell towers and palm leaves
in its flame.

Slowly, it stretches
further down
brightening the beach
and the back of a young man
pedaling his bike.

Rays of light
shadow his knapsack
pointing toward
the personal contents
inside; some bread, some cheese
and a book.

Last night, he turned
five pages and read
poems on old parchment,
learned of a  lady
who entered the sea.

She carried the shore bird's song
on her shoulders
and round stones in her bodice.
She placed them beneath
the tight lacing
to mark her last moments on earth,

the weight of love
calibrated by sad tears,

of candlelight
haunting Autumn
from a dark piano

and her bare feet
rubbing against the wet
intimacy of sand

which should have been
her lover's torso
muscular and lean.

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" Il est cinq heures... "

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Il est cinq heures

© 2011,

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But it was merely sand
that would soon become
drifting time, even glass
spun into mirrors

reflecting back
the loneliness felt
in girl or season,

and currently, this coast --
line propelling
the tourist to ride
along the sea
shaping words into a ghost.

Intent, he looks for her
floating in between
bell song and palm sway,
the morning's air transformed
into human breath -- hers
soft and intimately close
as the French bread, the breast-white
ounces of  Camembert.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.

To know more  about this poem,   about Wendy Howe

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