The Longing

Slender young woman in a dress white and romantic like an orchid.

She holds herself small, close, despite her long brown sugar limbs.

Her shoes and her purse, her softness and her scent are pricy, but not impossible.

Next to the girls waiting tables, eyes searching to satisfy, hair a sweet frazzle, coming undone,

What is she to the clever food critic watching her leave the room?

Her femininity seems careful, her self still more her own than a warm mother’s soul would be.

Perhaps she seems like all things womanly yet with no obligations.

He closes the cap on his pen with a crisp snap,

Long moments after she has left only her perfume to remind us of her.

His thoughts are his own and only I imagine they are of her.

Still, with a girl who carries her whole life in a big elegant purse on her ribs,

A man must think it would be easy, light.

He’d just move on after, simple, carrying merely his own weight into tomorrow.


The gulls are bright and quick, taking high to the sky. 

This great, long band of sugary earth,

The broad, splashing meadow of water –

They make of us very small things, you and I.

We pause, sun-blinded, for a moment lost.

Heedless of our bewilderment, the tide unfolds on the sand,

Tossing up shells of pink and strands of kale green.


Then you call out to me to come and play,

Two pale hands making a steeple over your green eyes.

And because you are older and wiser

And more knitted to the world by the magic of hours,

And because I know you will not lead me too far away,

I come along to join you.

One hot, crunchy step at a time, we close the gap.

Warm fingers curl together and another adventure begins.