The women stand toe to shoreline,
shielding their faces
with their sun-browned arms, waiting
for the green spark, the signal
to bend, their sagging breasts
skimming the surface
of the creeping tide.
They send off their tiny paper boats
carrying candles as the tide goes out,
beacons for lost children,
those who went away and forgot the words
their mothers sang at night.
From the shore, the women watch
as each wave causes the ocean
to flicker off and on again,
they sigh deep like coming gales
to push the folder paper messages
a little further, whisper,
Come back.