Public Republic

Christina Lovin

Photo: Ctd 2005

I wanted to write something deep,
but your eyes are only blue: that color
of October oceans or the clear skies
of May, though not so fathomless.
Your gaze holds more these tidal pools
reflecting August’s rain-thirsty heaven
and flocks of greedy gulls. Knowing
them to be too shallow, too warm, I plunge
into the petulant surf, while you take the high path
through the woods that breaks onto the bay,
seeking sun-warmed stones as you will,
as you always do. We leave the beach
to the tourists, mostly, until those winter days
we share the shore, alone together,
looking out upon the ice-blue depths.