It is not difficult
to remember time's blindness
- as much as the night could see.
Their love was such that midnight's light
no longer seeped in between their palms, their eyes.
The fronds, ghostly in the canopy, shuddered
at their fruit, the bud of the bud
which would turn an erstwhile lover
into an accomplice.
Tonight, they sang
a sand-in-seashell song.
I am the mother, the child,
the midwife of the homecoming trail
- in another poem we may return,
like footsteps to the dawning shore.