Wood Cut

She’s not here.

But she is.

Long ago,

she danced upon a rock

not far from where I sit,

on the beach,

writing these words

while the old husky squints and sleeps.

The waves break green and white.

I want to dive in with her,

go under,

go deep,

jump up,

embrace,

kiss,

laugh,

at those clothed city fools,

and plan our collaborative work of art,

otherwise known as life.

Out to sea I see pelicans fly.

Lope is a better verb.

A helicopter hovers.

Someone is lost at sea.

I see clouds at the midline,

frayed at the edges.

I can’t name them

although I am reading a book on clouds.

Sometimes naming drains magic in the world.

Writers name too much.

I don’t want to be that writer.

She’s an artist, not a namer.

She always follows her fluid intuition,

which is how we met.

We didn’t try to name why.

It was wine that night on the rock,

or whiskey.

I can’t remember.

I remember everything else,

The dance, her outstretched arms,

The creek, the ocean.

And that way of dangling over me.

Dangling! What an action!

She’s a wood cut in my mind.