Down we went along the crystal stream
toe-deep in sand watching the thousand-year palms
hand in hand, and I watched too
much for your liking as we crossed
some mossy fallen trunks and emerged into
dry light and grainy silt. Your father was withering
in Maryborough, day by day, trying to say
any words at all. We had met spilling tea and again
in the pool as I coddled our daughter. We cooled
in the breeze planning our trudge down those
thick paths wearing sneakers, our daughter babysat.
We rode past rusting hulks and the passion of
touching thighs loosened ourselves beyond
the full sunlight and we planned our daughter's life.
As it turned out, terrapins infested the pond
we dandled our toes in and we were not nipped.
And we thought of beautiful days like days
we had known outside of schools, laws, insurance, debt:
it was too much to believe could be merely
predictable - in the cabin we made
frictiony love that was pathetic in its necessity.
The sun broke hard, browning our heads
through slats. The sand was a problem, ever present
between us, like my memory and yours.