On the Water
My friend lives on the water,
I am a fisherman of my quarter.
When I walk he is far far out,
When I look he stays forever close.
Knocks my door with flower scent,
Flips my book on a windy noon.
I will wither, no beauty will lend their hands to me,
My prose will be dry, I fear they be a lie.
But my friend on the edge of land,
Will wash me back to a warm domain of water.
Where the bubbles come from sand,
And echo like calm breaths of a sleeper.