By Madison
Date: 3 March 2001

sandcrossings

in the late-night hours, I sit 
in my green hammock 
made of rope.
becoming young
as I grow old.
I push my toes into the 
sand and sway, cradled between the 
tamarind and weathered corner post.
I decide I am the tree and
not the post.
I hear that it is cold where you are.
above my tangled sack, the moon pulls.
the stars dance like midwives of the sky 
in ritualistic flames.
crashing booms of waves kiss
the shore, open-mouthed.
sands of nearly oyster white
hold a bookmark at the crossing 
where we stood, wrapped in your 
Indian summer coat against the 
ocean's gust, wrapped in time 
polarized by time.  it marks the
crossing of two, and holds a place
for your return, for the soft voice 
of ocean.  for the whisper of 
your dark, watercolor eyes.



M Madison
03 mar 01