November 26, 2013


I know the land
looks different
from way out here,
just a thin strip
pitching on the horizon,
brimming with the life
we've left behind.
Now we're rolling,
the engine pushing us 
up the swell, 
easing down
into the trough,
working to climb
back out again.

At last we slow, then stop,
adrift amid keening gulls;
we're all still waiting 
to be released,
though we
no longer swim.
Some few words
are hastily spoken,
on the quickening wind.

A smudge of ash
is seeded 
over the side, roiling 
the clear water.
No stone will 
mark the spot 
where we are left, 
nor say exactly