Adventures in the Word

I remember we took a long walk at low tide,
you and I, barefooted on the sands, our pants
rolled up to our calves, and you didn’t seem to mind your
hair swept in your eyes by the warm breezes.

At first we chatted on about the kids and cares
of life, all the while the sun was golden on your hair,
and I looked down at our feet, while we strolled, sometimes
in step, but at times my longer strides tugged us along.

Then, for the longest time, your hand in mine,
we walked on contented, even borne along,
beside the wordless sky, and watched the sun
paint its own wild waves above the tide.

Our silent conversation continued on, our fingers
met – curling, entwining, holding, then parting again.
We looked mostly ahead, but I often glanced across your
browned shoulders and watched the mirrored suns kiss.

Silvery shadows gray your cheek as
the last lip of rounded red now sinks below the world and
leaves a wake of reds and golds, a gaudy show on any other screen,
but somehow it speaks the words we find it hard to say.

The ocean waters dim, white-crested still, and it suddenly comes to mind –
a little late – we should have turned around by now.
Looking back, long strands of pearls re-light our footprints on the sand.
Our eyes briefly meet – then, we turn and walk on, your hand still in mine.

– David Herin

My path wanders on and leads me along
and without warning angles down
and just as quickly ends
and stops and drops his hand
and leaves me there to ponder at the edge.

Now a rabid creek rushes right,
a forest sun splashes light
on rounded ripples and plays on
mini-falls. It laughs at me and makes me wince
and dares me cross its murky, black-white depths.

A makeshift log bridge jabs across
and assorted stones scatter crazy paths –
some are sturdy archipelagos, and some are surely fields of sunken mines.
I just don’t think I’ll make it to the other side
without a slip, a swim, or a slide.

I turn around to look back up the trail
and know that way cannot lead me on,
my Path has led me here and
even though I’m tired and don’t feel like getting chilled,
any other way seems longer still,
                              so
my first step gets my right foot wet,
and wading out, it rushes up to my belt,
yet I’ve not yet reached the swiftest part.
My toes search the hills and holes for the surest holds
but still my head can’t keep from sinking
      slowly
                  below,
                              so

swimming now, I reach the other side
in so much better time. (Why didn’t I do this before?)
I’m dripping wet, but still the sun is high.
. . . hmm . . .
others must have been here before ’cause
the same worn path picks up right here, here on the other shore.

– David Herin