PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

[In memory of Wladyslaw Moes, 1900-1986]

That afternoon, I followed your footsteps in the

damp, pristine sand at the water's edge and just

beyond its reach.  I had already found your shoes,

conspicuously abandoned; and your shirt, flung

across the sturdy chair next to our room's main window.

Pretentions of prejudiced societal expectations

meant as little to us here, at as all the elsewheres we

had visited.  Your baggy, beige cargo pants had been

earlier removed from their hanger; so I knew you had

worn them.  The tatters of their frayed cuffs left

some rather delicate marks in the sand; and, upon

examination of your footprints, I noticed that your

toes 'cleavage was mostly indistinct---so I believed,

with the certainty of both faith and hope, that you had

chosen to wear your semi-sheer socks.  Because the

sun was shining in its cloudless sky, I was confidant

that its light all glistened on your waist-length curls.

After a bit of unexpected exertion---for about a

quarter of an hour---I caught up to you (after all,

you had not been strolling that quickly), and found---

delightedly---that my conclusions based upon the

evidence, were confirmed in full.  Later, that

evening, the incoming tide entirely obliterated

your footsteps---every bit along the path you had

followed.  By that time, we had fallen asleep---naked

after love; and the multiple wet streaks only

barely (shall I say) discernable on the satin

sheet beneath us (and mine on your socks that, as 

requested, you had not removed).

Starward