You Stood on the Shore
You stood on the shore
watching me kick, swing out without aim –
my hair dripped and clung in knots –
you stood watching me, helpless.
You built a raft: words whispered, songs –
heavy steps across a room scarred with sleeplessness –
Shoved it from shore.
It foundered, feet
from land.
I could not touch, see, hear you.
You saw me alive: arms up, down – breath short.
You saw me alive,
but –
how long?
You screamed – eyes shut. Loud.
Called down lightning and thunder
from the sky. A rope. A life jacket. Anything.
As if you could
do something. You knew
you couldn’t.
But
you stood on the shore.
You never left – not for one breath.
You, too, grasped – gasped – breath.
Your breath and mine
mingled
across the water.
Our breath kept us:
blood beating hearts pulsing hands working
until He
lifted me out,
dripping water, and
placed me on the dry, placid ground
next to you.
Now we stand on the shore.
We see the water and
we remember.
We are together.
We were together.
