Wood drifts on water.
Daffodils drift on swirling pools, tossed by your hand from the dock, yellow eyes turning.
Chasms open, hearts open and close.
Each grinding leaves dust; the closing not quite complete.
Eyes once hard, soften; lips once dry, moisten; hands once empty, fill.
Desires become dreams; dreams memories.
Distance is not so wide as it seems.
What drifts returns.