Waves whisper, wash rippled footprints in sand,
leave salt circles on skin. Toes curl, try to hold
a receding sea, the memory of how you left me
behind, the way you leaned out the car door
to say goodbye, turned to wave as you drove
away. When you didn’t come home, I sat alone,
wiped tears from cheeks and waited, longed
for the impossible, for you to return like the tide.

 © Susan Constable
Quills, Volume II, Number IV, Autumn 2005

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