her hand

‘tide… rusting ship with pop holes from

tired hands, knocking,


knocking, trying to escape; she stands

in the harshness of time


holds in her hand a paper thin

remembrance of something;


wet sand like quick sand of time…

rowboat thirsty for drinkable


water, in pain as salt licks its wounds,

sea worms in tight where


rusted screws no longer grip old wood,

one rotted oar as a crutch,


one survivor limped to shore; footprints,

footprints, she feels;


a cottage in dunes where spiders spin

webs to catch breezes


and remnants of insects, has closed

shutters, closed long ago


by her when he left for a war of some

kind, he took paper, pen


and a black and white photo, “with all

my love” written


in ink from a cracked glass bottle, the

ink had dried up;


footsteps up a path she follows, blades

of saw grass cut at her ankles,


she cannot see, opens a door held in

place by old carpenter’s work;


inside, relic of a lover, beaten by

sea battles, beaten by the sea,


he says, “i’m on furlough, waiting for

the next war, i came for


more pen and paper,” one gauge

bandage covers her eyes,


tears from the heart run down, can’t

stand the pain, she says,


“i know…”


Copyright © 07/14/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


2 comments on “her hand

  1. LadyBlueRose's Thoughts Into Words says:

    this pulls at the heart…
    Beauty is such deep sadness Lance….
    Take Care…

  2. MaryRose, thank you so much for your thoughts!! Take care, Lance

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