Speak the whisper of stones, of morning-breath freezing about birch-trunks.
It was cold in August: my fingers played at the candor in your cascading hair. And you said I was “fine” by the standard of sea-care. Adrift? no, but drifting certainly
toward a certainty. Waves from somewhere crashing around our feet.
Before the end of day we watched the sky pulse gradient without light. The lack of color alarming: it and you and me together, under the hood of some ornamental star
and we were indistinguishable from ash and snow.
Under rock. Above sea-salt. There are places in this world filled with joy and we cannot find them.
Two songs intertwined; four legs measuring gaits of varying length;
your eyes and my mouth so close never meeting.
The ash dissipated as we turned our backs to the earth, we forced ourselves toward frozen light.
Me and you and it were lost, becoming birch-song and stone-gaze.