Barefoot at Low Tide

Because the bus was late, I watched an old man split an orange and give the brighter half

Summer is the season that forgets to end on time—it lingers at the shore like a guest who loves your house more than you do.

A blue bowl waits on the table, patient as a patch of sky. It has held pears, keys,

I knew her hands in motion: buttoning, chopping, braiding, mending,

He never said be patient. He handed me the line, pointed where the current slowed,

No warhorse. No polished saddle. A young colt carries