Terrace Place

There we’re waiting,

inky shallows.

There we’re searching

skies for firecracker light.

Where I’m shoeless,

cold feet, white-whisked.

Where you’re shirtless -

glossy underbelly of a pike.

Shaking snails out

of your pockets.

Shaking rain-chilled

lashes dark with mud and mire.

Are we digging

mollusked-heartache?

Are we holding

onto fragile friends forever?

My hands combing

sand for skip-stones.

Your hands dripping,

picking for me white nymphaea.

Found it shining

in the water.

Found it dancing,

the stars haloed around our heads.