Tuesday, January 11, 2005
It’s suddenly December
and the beach road knows—
how rust-colored trees lean over us,
sunlight strobing through.
It’s “Slow Hands” through Crawfordville
with our daughter strapped in—
swinging beads, swaying her body, shaking her head to the beat
and Paul’s lovelorn protestations.
You hum along, quietly.
It’s decidedly December
with Ochlockonee Bay at neap tide—
a lonely dock stretching over the dank sand—
cloud mountains ever ahead—
over the coastal pines,
over the tidal flats,
over your porcelain face, my finger floats
behind your ear where your half-broken glasses rest.
It’s us, framed in the rearview—
my face and right side of yours—
reflected and together.
You smile knowingly.