Her eyes
are the fish of the sea
I remember on afternoons
when the sun
in its highest point
penetrated
down
to the rocks and blue.
Her skin
is the horizon of houses
I come over the hills of
Marathon
to see their white plaster by
green cedars
wavering in
Boreas and Zephyr’s daydreaming.
Her home
is the hand and the valley shaped
figure
I’ve grown and dreamed towards
but
never touched,
turning to the wood of the
dresser instead
to save a warm splinter of
sunlight,
to go on breathing deep breaths
as
I age.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 