for my girls, even Riana, who doesn’t like poetry.
The Cranberry Line
Follow the cranberry
line of dawn, go home
reach far, the moon is only
a lost star looking
for sunrise, for the saffron tide;
waves like Aurora’s children
on the verge of morning,
stretch and rub their eyes.
Be a poet. Be that girl
awake at the water’s edge
on the brim of next.
Be that light, renewed
from dark to day.
Be the patience
between each letter and space.
As quiet as dancing
along the cranberry line
or as loud
as tomorrow’s
crashing orange spray.
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