On Rural

I came to the coast from my father’s death,

to heavy fog clinging to limbs and burls

with edges worn smooth like his aging form –

and the salted air’s clutch was his hand, stiff and cold.

Vainly I wished that the tides would stop,

that pebbles would nestle and never need leave,

that sea creatures who perished could rest in their graves

and the beach would grow hard, impermeable to change.

For how could I eat, or smile, or breathe?

while his dear brain burned hot and turned to ashes

like the sun sliding gently down toward the waves,

its inexorable fall a daily demise.

So I peeked through my hands as it narrowed and dove

bravely beneath the curve of the earth,

but as I watched – mourning – the fire below

lit the clouds in a madness of color and light.

And there was its glory in startling array –

though the sun itself had ceased to warm –

had gone, I saw suddenly, to light someone new,

and to rise at that moment on a distant shore.