From the beach to our summer house, you left
dark gray and barefoot prints disappearing,
a pace of one gone, every four you took,
evaporating there in the hot sun,
baking the pavement, in visible mist,
fully rendered, pointillistic, then gone …
Poof! I’m amazed you didn’t burn your soles.

You draped your long body exotically
with a wrap of sea greens, aquas, sun golds,
backdrop to the blue heather of your eyes.
Earlier, at the ocean pretending
we were the first to arrive here, this bank,
this coast side, this planet, this time around,
you turned to point, fins skimming the surface,

then turned to me, your face filled with waiting
my response, but I’d not heard the question,
as waves consumed your voice and I’ve wondered
what it was exactly you said that day.

She searches for sea shells, slowly combs sands,
then wades out waist-high; the surf erases
yesterdays’ traces, and less is no more.
She, it’s just she, shucking shells by the shore.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013