Ashes

The tide comes in; the tide goes out again

washing the beach clear of what the storm

dumped. Where there were rocks, today there is sand;

where sand yesterday, now uncovered rocks.

So I think on where her mortal remains

might reach landfall in their transmuted forms,

a year now since I cast them from my hand

—wanting to stop the inexorable clock.

She who died by her own hand cannot know

the simple love I have for what she left

behind. I could not save her. I could not

even try. I watch the way the wind blows

life into slack sail: the stress of warp against weft

lifts the stalling craft, pushes it on out.