Submitted by Willie Smith
Stand out front, staring across the valley,
thinking of myself over there a mile away
staring back. Smile at how small
I must look, looking back
at this my small self. In the mind
I wave. In the mind over there
the familiar stranger the wave returns.
Can’t see if the phantom smiles or
“really” waves, distance likewise too far
for the chummy spook to read my face
or discern a wave. Press together fingertips –
pinky-to- pinky, thumb-to- thumb,
other six tip-to- tip. Pump the hands
like a spider performing on a mirror
pushups. Feel myself over there,
closing eyes, feel myself here. The
quiet pulses in the warming dark.
Although self be something more
than mind and body sum, open eyes,
dropping hands, to fall, in a heartbeat, on
nobody on the far ridge
in the pink dawn.
Photo Credit: Sunday, 1926 – Edward Hopper