Shoulders, steeped and round,

massaged by sun of warming, come.

Toward a future point of reference

a heart sits still, its mourning not yet done.

Below deck, crouched in the basement

of this soul, a candle flickers, reluctantly warm,

the only light in this small room.

Crouched, alone in this auditory poise,

tired muscles quiver, weary from waiting,

taut from this long and painful silence,

outrageously shouting their demands –

“be still

and still, be.”