Wave
James Croal Jackson
when the continents drift apart
again
at least I know any island would keep you
in its palm
and stay afloat
while tectonic ghosts shift
the ocean
every cyan wave an old hello
when I last tried to hold your sail
in my fist you turned to water
but I hear the tide sing melodies
that must return
bearing my name in pewter clouds
and silver rushes that word into air
into a sailboat — I see shape
in risen mist
with hope the form lingers
long enough to lead us
to where we need to be