the picture hangs on the wall
across from the door, eye-level.
everyone sees her arm swing
hair fly, her dark shape of all things
long and thin and shining
in the sun.
it’s there every day,
five years of every day
and she is no longer seven
or quite so fragile, or oblivious
to her placement
in the world.
i’ve grown accustomed to her
shape, marking place, time, moment, air.
and though she fills my life well past full
she has become only prelude
to what more there is
in the picture
the sun speaks across the water
noticing the lives of waves as they pull
forward and up and stretch and roll
and become for a moment the most joyous
recipient of light, and crest
inevitably
under unlit feet
the water wastes, and draws
a retreat across the sand
how little time it takes to count
the death of waves, or how long we sit
in our lives
when words are scarce
i rest there, believing none should dare
live as poet without watching waves live and die–
ministers, little town doctors,
and very old women,
those whose hands have sunk
to the elbows in life
for she is lovely
and so easy to wish to see
more than the glitter tossed scenery, the depth to the water’s floor
the barrier of sand, air swirling, the pull that sifts sea, sand and air
the crest, that is, that is, that is, and is returned
into its own