A gentle shore

Painted by an exhale long in escaping

Settles as a soft mist,

Grey,

Upon a river, silk

A man sits

His hands buried in that ancient soil

Rich and ancient

It whispers against the man's skin

Bringing him a sad smile for what is gone,

For what is to forever come

Another stands

A sentinel to his peace-

Strands black, and mirrors green

That is long yet in returning

They wait together,

Alone

Companions in their solitude

Waiting with gentle embraces prepared

For the gifts they’ve left behind

On the river, they watch a man in his small boat

Who traverses the endless tides between the constant shore

And the grey mist memory,

Who rows near and asks-

“What time is it?”

And the man upon the ground shakes his golden head

And the man who stands smiles with brown eyes, and replies:

“Not yet time,”

And the River man nods,

Soft leather and calm sinew,

And smiles as he rows away

So he may return and ask

Once more