We are on opposite shores of the river.
Its banks fertile, the soil alluvial.
The water meanders, little deltas form, wearing the etchings of the mountains;
You do not see their peaks, but they are there you know and the journey was worth it.
Going back in time.
It is the quiet of a new dawn, a lullaby so still you can hear the dewdrops,
Even the sun lingers, holds its brushstrokes, steps back into the clouds, to see the whole canvas;
I sprinkle vermilion, trace a line with my thumb.
My hands part the water and a torrent sweeps you,
Riding a river of stars under a glittering sky, ever changing, ever full of possibilities.
You are on this shore.
Nothing but memory now and a silence incarnadine,
Your braids unfurl, the blood stirs like a tide
What is that consecration on your forehead, in the parting of your hair?
I am thirsty now.
You offer me water from your palms, cupped, a lake waiting to be emptied
That breaks the spell.
My reflection in your hennaed fingers.
The rivers inside us surge, through the tributaries of the heart
But there is no path to the starlight
And you are empty handed now – bereft, mesmerized.
Somewhere in that silence blows a conch shell.
