Balsa in my Hand

Balsa in my hand

Your sandy palm,

Its splintered skin, a grainy papyrus

Of innumerable and tendril lines,

Fissure etchings that tell me

My favourite story,

Always warmly read

By the tracing fingers of my hand,

That on each precious line linger and

Caress the cherished seashore fabric

Of your sandy palm,

balsa in my hand