She walks through the rain,
heading down to the river.
So tall is she the umbrella can’t stop
her long skirt soaking up
rainfall below her knees,
and soon it clings to her limbs uncomfortably.
We watch her go, as she often does so
when her mood gets her down.
But his body’s never there.
Two ships of the desert crossing the sand,
now standing, saddled for us to ride.
You in your boat, floating close to the shore,
dreading a change to an outgoing tide.
Between us a border guard, watching to see;
staunchly he stands between you and me.
We’ll wait. He’ll move on, seek something more.
Then you’ll swim to me here on the ashore.