The Ocean’s Soul

The mist lingered on top of the water for 15 minutes longer today.

He took another sip of coffee and rocked slowly in his chair on the front deck of the cottage they once coined their poets nest.

He thinks back to a time when they would comb the shoreline every Friday for debris released from the grip of the tides. He remembers this one day when she found a large black feather, a raven’s feather; it was weather-beaten but she thought she had found gold.  He remembers so clearly taking it from her soft hands and weaving it in the locks of her long dark hair.

“You’re my Pocahontas,” he said. As soon as the words escaped his mouth she started running. She ran and ran until she reached the end of the beach. He followed her, as he always did, and they sat dipping their toes in the ocean and talking about the future.

“You’ll always put feathers in my hair, won’t you darling? And paint my funny looking toes, and read me your beautiful words?”

“Yes,” he replied, “For you I bare my soul, just as surely as the ocean reaches yours.”

He remembers that long, bittersweet kiss they shared in that moment.

He looks around him and remembers the nights they lay underneath the scratchy plaid blanket, just over there beneath the picture window, searching for Ursa Minor in the sky.

He takes another sip of coffee.

He clutches the raven’s feather tightly in his hand.

“The mist lingered on top of the water for 15 minutes longer today my love,” he whispered, “I hope that you can feel it.”

M.

Her.

The thoughts and feelings that extend from these fingertips, these hallowed lines of flesh; they’re like no one else’s.

I have my own set of unique life prints that cannot be copied.

In a moment of explosion my eyes are closed – like driving under bridges,  passing transport trucks, the predictable scary part in a movie, like a first kiss.

The best things in life aren’t seen, but felt.

Cold engraves a signature on my cheek. No one else will touch this place again with the same feeling.

When my heart is open I expect a gentle guided hand, not a sword of rusted valor.

Sometimes I wonder if I act without soul. I wonder if she follows behind me and shakes her head when she sees I’ve done wrong.

I wonder if she tries to put a hand on my shoulder and say enough’s enough. I wonder if she is a she, or if she is a he, or if there is nothing but room temperature air and I’m talking to myself.

I wonder if she thinks of me and smiles like when I think of her.

M.

Mandy Poole