The waters were quiet, the wood was dry.
Old men sit in the sun and doze, while the women inside bake
for no one in particular.
One woman stands, eyes out to sea,
fingers crushing the life from her balcony rail, though no one yet knows why.
They are all waiting, for different reasons
but with a common hope – that the men come home
so fathers can clasp hands with sons,
mothers dote,
so women can lead their husbands to warm beds.
So children can have a father again.
But one woman stands with eyes apart of time
every day she waits,
passes a whetstone over her future,
meditates a red tide in her mythology
as yet, unwritten.
