What do my eyes know of waters
that my hands not know of love,
my lips not know of loss?
Does the stone know not of moss?
And is a falcon not known of the dove?
And still my feet have walked the waves
for comforts far lesser than a smile
or a fluttering of wings
or a myriad other precious things
that only come every once in a while.
Yes. There were once waters, here,
limpid pools of shimmering sky blue.
A memory of a rustling of fingers
where once there used to be you.
© Nina Light 2013 CC-BY-NC-ND