Twain

On the island
between my state and yours
green buds form
on yearly trees.

They reach for the river
that splits and weaves
among the sandbars
and cleaves
our hearts
one from the other.

These depths separate us, my love.

But they are held by the one earth
(in the grip of creation)
so we may never truly be parted.

We have never been so twain
as the island would suggest,
but bud
and flower
and leaf
in seasons time
to return to each other
as channels to the sea.