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 

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