Wilderness.  Bright cupola.  Trimming the bittersweet and

raspberries along the marsh.  Hands reddening easily in

the cold

              of the air.  The salt of it.  The particular wakefulness

of pursuit-all-over-again.  Yes.  The rugged

                                                                       tenderness required

                                                *

to negotiate the delicate new growth of leaves.  Tendrils.  Little

invitations.  Come here,

                                       a moment.  How the sailor can become

the ocean he'd meant only, he thought, to sail across.  Closer. 

No, the part

                    after that.  One of us is going to have to say it first.