and here we are again
the phone is in his hand

searching

for connections

who knows what he’s thinking
(perhaps hiding)
from lack of words, the

yawning gulf
in the middle of
the lunch table

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Island

her hand in mine
little fish slipping
into coarse sand of my palm

sun-tanned palms
caught in golden net
sand-cast duet
shored against time

in relentlessly flowing brook
laced leaves
slowly tear. 

This is a response to a dVerse prompt on Impressionism.

Was thinking of my sister, and remembering when we were younger. Kind of miss her.