By
Bill Olson
ã 1983, 1992, 2001 by Bill Olson
From the other abandoned pier, she gazed toward the endless waters that so long ago had captured my affections and guarded them like a jealous bride. Perhaps the woman smiled blankly at the reflections of the rising sun. Perhaps tears filled her eyes as she awaited the return of her Odysseus. But her back was always to me, so whatever inner secrets echoed from her countenance were not for me to know.
I lay down on my wharf and stared at her. She was beautiful, I decided, blessed as Neptune’s Goddess. The ocean rhythm must be her pulse, the tropical breeze her breath. So as I closed my eyes, images of her serpentine form silhouetted against the morning sky, and I in her arms, danced in my barren mind.
And with that hope, I fell asleep.
In my dream, the waves rose to my body, carried me across the harbor. And I heard the Lorelei Song as she turned around.
The waves, with altruistic gentleness, lifted me and placed me before my love, as a sacrifice upon an altar. Then my heart stopped.
Her face drew closer until our lips met.
I awoke.
My cold form lay wet upon her pier. And moving away from my lips was her open mouth. I coughed. She smiled. She, too, was wet.
And I saw that she was even more beautiful than the sea.
-- Eau Claire, Wisconsin, October 10, 1983
(Revised: Wednesday, January 10, 2001)