Saltless Autumn

I miss the sands of summer
that yield to the probing of feet
digging into an anchorage
against the movement of blue water
clear enough to see the golden embrace

salt tasting my lips

I stood in the wash of rising tides
felt the cool lick at my skin
upon my face the release
of a shallow dive to freedom
under rocking waves of comfort

salt wash upon my lips

I am rue in this biting cold
that tells me there is now
a numb pain in that water
gleaming chilled green
and withholding invitation

saltless lips in autumn


© Frank Prem, 2001

Appeared in Map of Austin poetry E-zine #183-1 May 2001

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