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.