for Carolyn Buckley
The beach roses open, turn toward the sky,
where part of you remains. I’m down here
with the finely veined flowers, fuchsia and white.
A thing of beauty, but not forever. How we forget.
Sun scorch, rain on my mind’s blind eye.
Where is memory safe?
No stone inscribed. Take me with you
to Wingaersheek, you said, the shore
of Singing Beach. My cold-water friend,
I want to tell you I carry your heart,
but some days I barely lift my own.
I hear you say Set it down.
Here, where the sidestepping crab
shakes off the sand, unburies herself,
we’ll ease our feet into the cold Atlantic.
