Tuesday, August 2, 2011

In Memory of My Mother, ten years after.

My mother died ten years ago, but she still comes to my dreams.


The white ibis glides overhead

to the far side of Turnball Bay—

the distance between what was said

and all I wished I could say.

Before me, the muscled tides flow,

and sharp winds cut back at the waves

so I can’t see what lies below—

those secrets the dark water saves.

The sea grass curves in question marks

around my searching, submerged hand.

Blue, broken shells like heaven shards

lie on the narrow strip of sand.

Whichever shoreline I walk to,

the wild birds fly to the other.

This morning divides me from you,

but the birdcalls echo over.