by Margaret Beaver
The oceans lap lovingly at their feet, gifts of
a white froth; sea birds converse in the distance.
She stands by his side; small transparent fish curl
in the rivulets around their toes.
There is a distance between them the size of a
small child. She is a photograph never taken:
by her absence, a presence. His youth is gone
as the wool from the heel of his socks.
He holds a slight shell to his ear, listening for
the child's voice as if a contained wind.
The sheer sash of the woman, wrapped loosely
about her body, lifts lightly in the air so like
freedom. She opens her mouth, embracing the
ocean, wraps her arms around a body only hers.