White Pine Arms

I missed your white pine arms

wrapped softly around my blue water torso,

fingers like roots pressing into my soil banks.

My soul laps

                        back and forth,

back and forth,

            back and forth,

against yours.

Your basaltic back,

            solid and somehow forgiving.

I fill these cracks and crevices of your back that formed

            with centuries of wind and rain and snow.

And those that were formed by whitecaps that rushed in too quickly,

crashed,

engulfed,

devoured.

And then fell silent too fast.

My lips pressed against your sun-warmed shoulder blade,

I think you’ve been here forever.