Even in winter there was sun living
in the green shoulders of the waves.
I’d walk the beach alone with shadows:
gulls in formation on the ground.
Once the bones. Once a poem
that wrote itself behind my eyes.
When I’d come home he wouldn’t say
how much he feared the way I’d carry
words to the clouds and let them go.
Everyone carries a shadow. Everyone
breathes out fog in the cold. Even the living sun can’t melt the ice shelf
that pushes up the sand, makes
of this familiar scape a wild shape—
a place that can’t be known.
I walk the dunes above, misplace
the old theologies. I suppose a light
has dawned. The sun pushed high
as it will get, tapping the tops of pines,
my own shadow long among
the others growing darker, denser
the more I call the light
to me. The more I try to see.