Looking down at the tops of trees to the water, my
toes edge the boulder that crests, then slides down the cliff.
I hear the sucking sound of waves on rocks. The tide line
curves muck around the shore. It is raining.
I pace the edge of the cliff, starting left, moving right,
feet stepping on clay, dirt, grass, rock, puddles of rainwater.
I didn't expect tulips, half unseen, wedged
between two stones and wrapped in plastic, a flashlight
next to them, water spotted. The rock is marked with a white dove,
thirty-nine year old woman dead. An unusual sight for a scenic
vista, odd to see edging a cliff between the scattered beer cans,
someone dead less than two years, whose ashes stick to the bottom
of my shoes.
Rain hits my glasses. Emotions come back, the familiar knife-twist.
I stand next to her and look out to the water, seeing
a denuded larch or dead douglas fir, I cannot tell. It is hard to see,
the water on my glasses blending objects, tulips and flashlight.
I am cold, and have nothing to give her.
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