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He stands at water's edge
toes gone blue from frigid froth
gazing Westward, strains with wistful eyes
after a ship
that's sailed this little while
this endless age

My wagon rattles up behind
lumps along the stony shore; inside,
the cargo waits
fresh eager faces
turned for some sign, for some word
from me.

Out they scramble at my nod
to tug his pant legs, wrap
arms around a shaky knee, press
tender faces to his thigh, clutch
his knotted fingers in tiny fists.

Will he turn from that sad horizon?
Will he with trembling palms
caress our saltblown hair?
Join hands with us to form
a joyful circle, raise his grief-wracked
voice to join our joyful song,
our foolish song
our song of Youth and Spring?

Perhaps, perhaps.
Perhaps it is too late,
or I too distant.
Perhaps there is nothing
but to let him wait.

Alas, I have no wagon
and no delightful children
metaphoric though they be
only me, my empty hands
my open heart,
just me.

Tuck my head beneath his unresistant arm,
press into his chilly body-
does he turn, or look, or sigh?
His gaze never wavers;
here I will wait, will wait
will wait
perhaps to feel
some little movement
of his fingers on my arm.

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The following comments are for "At the Edge of Tomorrow (for John)"
by cybele

sweet sorrow
the pain and hope in this piece is razor sharp. i was totally there with you on the beach. nicely done.

( Posted by: poesandpoetry [Member] On: February 1, 2004 )

superbly done - one of your best - I can't say I know what you're writing about, exactly, but I don't have to, to care - thanks -


( Posted by: johnlibertus [Member] On: February 13, 2004 )

ahh that made me think
thats so sad,,I appreciate your talent,

( Posted by: CoCo [Member] On: April 11, 2004 )

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