Shadowed red on the sun-drenched side of trees,

palms of nature's hands protect the underside of me,

flopping metaphorically, white-bellied and scaled blue,

thirsting for the depth of water, slow washing over you.

Shuttered by pale doors and wood so very finely etched,

reflections of its own full face the sun its soul to catch,

by jealous artist's calloused hands its memory is made,

yet none so jealous as the sun whose every touch does fade.

Magic in his large tan hands sculpt emotions into stone,

and like his sword-bearing soldier he so often stood alone,

no jaunty hat upon his head, nor pedestal of wood,

but deathly silent, grand and stoic, in marble so he stood.

Turned away from the blue of day, and the barren salty sea,

he captured in his bottle midnight's strange tranquility,

I watch him from a distance through the window of his heart,

yet dreaming of those endless journeys on which we shall embark.