so exciting, so fascinating, so
wholly fulfilling, so viscerally
gratifying to

think, to think deeply, to ponder
the delicate prism of our reality
and its' infinite possibilities

that one is left

giddy

in the park, the homeless stamp their feet in the cold

as the snow drifts down through the city

onto leafless trees, painting winter branches

white and still and voiceless

like the scent of crisp linens

from morning's first conscious breath,

she is life awakened

thoughts of tinsel and garland and stolen kisses under
mistletoe, of snow-covered walks, the prismed flakes
gathered garishly to glisten under the evening lamplight

of friends and family bearing cakes and drinks,
of hearty hugs and Santa hats, and toothy grins and silly
smiles of neighbors happily in their cups

the many pages since fallen from the calendar,
all shadows now, etched in their loveliest,
flawless in mind’s eye

A car pulls up along the shoreside and a man in a suit and tie slides out to find the sand.

The beach has quieted.

A few surfers paddle hurriedly out to sea for a last run in the twilight.

An older couple stands by the water’s edge.

Wisps of the woman’s gray hair flutters above her, caught in the ocean breeze.

The lifeguard station sits quiet, the small, whitewashed house perched on reed-like stilts shuttered for the night, though the sand is still warm from the afternoon sun.

The man rolls up his pant legs and removes his socks and shoes and places them beside him.

He shields his eyes from the splintered sun’s rays as he scans the water clear to the thick black line of the horizon.

A young woman, flaxen-haired, a surfboard cupped effortlessly at her side, the bridge of her nose tinctured white, emerges from the waves.

Wet-suited, bare-footed, head tilted skyward, she hikes along the sand, her day’s work done.

As her shadow lengthens over him, the specter causes him to glance downward.

A few grains of sand have clung to the tips of his polished shoes.

He decides to leave them.

We waited in our tiny den, my mother and me, waiting for my father, the salesman, to come home after the week’s traveling.

We hurried to the window as the headlights flashed across the glass,
excited for the weekend to begin.

He smiled as he entered, quietly looking forward to Monday morning.

Intimate tables. White linen coverings. The room, a checkerboard against the mahogany floor. Cozy nooks for two sit poised for the evening crowd, set against the wainscoting of one wall, a length of crystalline windows above.

A place setting removed, she sits alone, the amber light of her wine an imposter for the last shards of daylight that poke from behind a ridge.

She swirls her wine clockwise. Something to do with progress, he said. Or she read that somewhere. She can't remember which.

She finishes and turns the stem of her glass slowly hoping to leave an impression in the cloth, when a voice says, "May I join you?"