Watch how the white wake
the white crested wake
follows the boy billowing
after him - a liquid, white trimmed
cloak
cut from liquid emerald

Look how the boy embraces
the wind, his face skywards tilted
the sky that's edged with purple
dusk - the satin edge of a woman's
petticoat
rustling around the boy.

The boy races his boat. Wind
ruffles his hair, ruffles
the white water crest, ruffles
the petticoat edge - brine crimped
froth
and salt kissed air.

I taste mist salt sprinkled
lick lips sting kissed - careless 
flick of salt slicked hair
billowing defiance - his challenge chasing
my pulse
stolen wine for my heart.
 

Mind Over Time

Here lives
a very young girl
trapped in
an old woman's body.
Don't mock me, please 
don't.

Why are all your senses
focused on
the facade alone?
Aren't you
curious?
Don't you
want to know what lies
behind?

What lies behind is
a very long life
stitched patchwork fashion
across
this ravaged body,
sheltering, slipshod fashion,
my soul.

My young soul 
sings
in spring
thrashes about
when winter howls
murmurs seduction
in the blind heat of summer
cries when cell by cell
my body dies
in autumn.

I have no control
over my soul
its shameless conduct
—its refusal to grow old.
Don't mock me, please don't.
I am
troubled as it is.

My wrinkles mock me enough.
they are like vicious
busy bodies
slyly peeping
through the cracks 
as they gossip. They can never
understand
how it feels
to be so
clandestinely young
even as this body
dissipates
day by aging day.