Do you remember when we were eleven or twelve, you were the first one to shave your legs? Your mother yelled 'you are too young' so loud that I didn't do mine until I was thirteen.
summer sun
walking the waves
our voices
Forty-five years later, I lather my calves . . . then sluice water through winter's hirsute growth. That sighing sound is just the sea.
moonless night
the undertow chatters
stones, and shells