A fellowship of two, we walk
for days on strips of sand,
from point to point the long way;
Set up tents in gaps
where gnarled forts – built by day –
let in the sky.
You pick driftwood sticks while
I tear sheets from journals
either emptied of past Sin
Or full of futures still possible.
The stray that chose to join us
stands sentinel beyond our glowing ring,
Thundering at each rustling mortal thing
like his Olympic namesake. Before life
fractured the frame of our best-laid plans;
Before girls and jobs and debt
took all our time. When we were warrior
poets in our moment of the possible.
After the dream but
before the sober light of day.
We watched Night trip and fall,
Scatter stars to the foggy gloam,
as we stared into the shifting sandy embers
of crumbling logs, warmed by our quest
for the ineffable flame.