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Description
I sit on the beach and watch thunderstorms roll in off the ocean
blue skies retreating westward
and waves licking at my ankles.

There was a song I heard hummed in the reeds
or maybe it was one you sang for me
a summer's night when we lay beneath the constellations.
Orion's belt resting just east of my window
three months and six days before you crossed the Atlantic.

I met a boy with with sandy blonde hair
and freckles like constellation mapped out on his cheeks.
He gathered seashell and sea glass,
driftwood and smooth stones
the day I fell asleep beneath the shade of the umbrella.
Four months and two weeks before he crossed the Atlantic.

He showed me brackish streams
where birds called back and forth to each other from the trees
And we laughed so hard,
till I thought I would burst, the canoe tipping over,
our clothes dripping with mud and salt water.
Three months and twenty seven days before he crossed the Atlantic.

His voice was the sound of coming home, at long last,
warm like morning sun through your window as it falls across your shoulders,
and smooth like the waves that brush the shores of a sheltered cove.

He gathered wild daisies from his backyard into a mason jar for me
and left them on my back porch
with a note that read, I love you to the moon and back.
I love you today and tomorrow and the next day and the next...
as long as I have breath.
One month and twelve days before he crossed the Atlantic.

Before he crossed the Atlantic.
Before the war stole him away.
Before goodbyes that hurt so badly you forget how to breathe and your heart collapses in your chest.
Before he left me
and the seashore
and the days we spent like children on the beach.

Description
I sit on the beach and watch thunderstorms roll in off the ocean
blue skies retreating westward
and waves licking at my ankles.

There was a song I heard hummed in the reeds
or maybe it was one you sang for me
a summer's night when we lay beneath the constellations.
Orion's belt resting just east of my window
three months and six days before you crossed the Atlantic.

I met a boy with with sandy blonde hair
and freckles like constellation mapped out on his cheeks.
He gathered seashell and sea glass,
driftwood and smooth stones
the day I fell asleep beneath the shade of the umbrella.
Four months and two weeks before he crossed the Atlantic.

He showed me brackish streams
where birds called back and forth to each other from the trees
And we laughed so hard,
till I thought I would burst, the canoe tipping over,
our clothes dripping with mud and salt water.
Three months and twenty seven days before he crossed the Atlantic.

His voice was the sound of coming home, at long last,
warm like morning sun through your window as it falls across your shoulders,
and smooth like the waves that brush the shores of a sheltered cove.

He gathered wild daisies from his backyard into a mason jar for me
and left them on my back porch
with a note that read, I love you to the moon and back.
I love you today and tomorrow and the next day and the next...
as long as I have breath.
One month and twelve days before he crossed the Atlantic.

Before he crossed the Atlantic.
Before the war stole him away.
Before goodbyes that hurt so badly you forget how to breathe and your heart collapses in your chest.
Before he left me
and the seashore
and the days we spent like children on the beach.