By John Chmura. Photgraphy by Keith Holley
You sneak like keen sunset pelted lopers who
know the shifting starlit dunes by scent.
Something skittish pitches sand. Fervent beau
has sheathed his poignant bow mid-note.
Changed are they then, as waves oblique to wind.
Whelps fidget beneath the upturned boat you
fixed one season on canvas but don’t yet know
if it be blessing a bungalow wall or hiding something,
a pitted panel, a seeping stain, which has
with love trapped time while all around it changed.
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