Nova Scotia, where you’re from, as Spring comes around.
Still cold enough for your teal beanie, a charm against death.
A bottle of red wine between us, as we drink, and talk.
The afternoon becomes as grey and dark as the northern sea.
There are mermaid’s tears on the shore, shiny and bright as glass.
We walk hand in hand, careful not to step on them, to not break
Something good, even if they’re made from the sorrows of those
Who couldn’t keep what was their joy, what made the moon so bright.
And I think of those tears, that we leave be, though we hear there songs.
Mermaids’ tears shed for lovers gone somewhere they can’t follow to.
And will my tears wash upon this shore, because I can’t follow you to
The dark forests filled with ghosts, or the shining heaven I see in your paintings.
I kiss your cheek, and wish with our vows we were one flesh and spirit
In this fallen world, where our devotions and tenderness are only
Lighthouses in the darkness the other sails, leads them home, but can’t be there.
My stories, your paintings, are the shining tears washed on each other’s shores.