WAKE
Rachel M. Croce
Bernard is not the name of a man, but a place
where winter eyes cast shore to shore
and land
kissed upon seagrass-laden rocky salt-marsh
and feast
upon simplicity
where loneliness mates with dreary coastline
I wed myself to me
an unsailed sailor
bent upon cracked compass
arrows dance
between glass and brass
loose bootstraps lift weighty limbs
in search
to hide at high tide
in this rare season of silence
waves wade then wake me
wind breaks then takes
a pair of smiling eyes
and sails off
into the new light
The Word Mill 