PILINGS

"Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet."
—Plato

It is in our memories that we realize our lives have meaning. Memories are so important no matter how old you are or how many years have passed to recall them. Can we consider ourselves blessed if we can remember? My father passed when I was just 11, my memories are few, although they live strong in my heart. He was a powerful man who burned himself into the recollections of many untouched by time. My fathers favorite Plato quote was said enough times to etch the words upon his urn.

When men speak ill of thee, live so that nobody will believe them. --Plato

PILINGS

Sitting on a polished dock,
four dangling bare feet hang,
he weaves rope into
loops for cleats for his boat.
A taper candle burns between them,
standing in a puddle of
hardened white wax.
Nylon line singed on the
tips of his burned finger prints;
he does not even cringe,
as her father marries
frayed strands of rope
creating a noose.
She sits in silence with him
and waits for his approval,
he thinks of work,
she breaths in his sandalwood scent.

He moves in discipline,
as the girl memorizes
the meditation of his heart, and he
masters the ritual of his weave,
her bent legs swing in rhythm,
she stares.
Beads of sweat roll down his temple;
a mallard duck floats by,
looking for scraps left behind,
pushing his orange beak
through the brown Chesapeake.

His massive fingers braid shiny threads
until all ends become blended
into one rope spliced by two hands;
she braids her long hair,
pretending her hands are his.
The nylon melts, burning black,
sending little curls of smoke to
seal the fate of a secure loop.
She watches
the candle die, alone with the
setting sun, on the dock with the boats.