As you sleep,
The dust by my window
Dances in the sunlight;
Swirling specs of glinting gold
Riding air currents
Like minuscule surfers.
As the dawn and I kiss your brow,
I wonder how many surfers are yours
And which ones are mine.
When did they part with our flesh,
Freeing themselves to be wind-riders,
Slaves to the air?
Over distant seas,
Our surfers soar with the breeze,
Above plankton, slaves to the surf.
Have we tasted wine in Sicily?
Were we exhaled by a Sei whale?
You awaken suddenly
And stir the dust.
The soft shimmer spins
About your head
Like a living halo.
Katrina Fleisher is a Writer and Business Owner hailing from Boca Raton, FL. Jill of all Trades with a penchant for Poetry.