I reach for your hand

to walk along the beach.

White sand

between toes

can be twenty

instead of ten

I reach for your hand,

but you turn away to

look at orange streaks of sky.

Small fires reflect

in your eyes.

Sometimes I see the

mountain shades of

the blue of Blueridge

September skies as

as the first speckles

of gold spread across

the leaves. I see

the face of me you hope will appear

burn in embers until only ash and

dirt sit in the campfire. You say,

“I see you have your pen again.

I have never known anyone

as obsessed with

their art. I have to change my

expectations.”

Ten years ago,

I reach for your hand to walk along the beach

Ocean

washes twenty toes

instead of only ten.

Maybe you see a pretty face, and

my words float

instead of sink when I say,

“If you come between

my writing or try to stop it, you will lose me.”

You see type words across a screen, and I see

you roll your eyes with shades of evergreen.

I reach for your hand to walk along the beach.

White sand

between ten toes

instead of twenty.