The sheds, the fishing shacks,
old warehouses lining the riverbank
turn a deep blue, indigo, nearly black
late in the afternoon, but they are still there—
informed by water, washed with the colors
of evening.
 
And you.
So quiet these days, nearly
disappearing into silence. But your eyes—
If you were a river, I would travel you
paddling my own canoe.
I'd pass through every shade of loneliness
until I found the deeper you,
the true self
that waits far back in the reeds.
 
I remember a white egret
stepping fitfully through shadows
until it startled
or came to a decision
and leaped
into full-bodied flight, ethereal
white kite sailing into its own future.

© by Ginny Lowe Connors.
Used here with the author's permission.