“How should I skip the sea
if the water weathers me?”
You asked before some summer storm
on solid sheets of form.
I recall such silly things,
like the fragrance of your dreams,
the sounds, as showers washed, you made,
your clothing, far too hip to fade.
To the past, I will go,
this burning bit by snow.
To the past, I will sing,
my source of everything.
You should skip the sea with stone
after all your birds have flown,
ripples that wax and wane,
before future falls of rain.