Weaving Hope

 My fingers weave faster now, palm fibers into threads,
threads for weaving rope. I swipe at the forehead grime
and concentrate on the last knots. Every two days, I
prostate myself at the base of the waterfall, and wash

sins and sweat away. The vicious water-thriving insects
prevent my lingering in the aquatic Nirvana. It is there
I can forget the salt, a sea circle closing me in, keeping
me locked in to my threading thoughts, around and around.

On my lucky days, a stiff breeze blew the bloodsuckers
and biters away, and I could sit on the slick boulder, luxuriate
in the fine mist and think of you. A merciless void in my head  
replaced how I got here, so I reflected further back, when

our time was ours alone. We threaded hopes into a future
we had yet to build. Now, my ragged nails pick and
readjust knots, dirt caught underneath and in the cracked
skin. My work is nearly done, and I ignore the overhead sun

in my haste to complete this. I know I have one last, freshwater
pilgrimage to make. I will return to this beach, clean and cleansed,
joyful. What I don’t know yet, is that you will be washed up
here, from the same, wicked waves. I will find you having undone

the noose I wove and lashing together wood for a raft.