by Havi Rojer

she moves long, light fingers

with careful motions and creates

little circles on the beach.

her nails are very short and the sand waits

patiently to crawl

beneath them.

the sea whispers to us

with the scent

of midnight moon.

it knows we share no blood,

yet we are sisters.

i speak, and my words

are as soft as the ocean bed.

i address them

to her tumbled hair,

to the dying daffodils resting

on her back.

“are you awake? there’s

a beetle on your arm.”

she meets my eyes 

with her lidded ones.

she curls her toes

into the old,

wet sand.

she sighs, “waking up

is so difficult. why do you always try

to wake me up?”

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