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Rising like a Winging Gull MAG
I am spiraling
in a riptide of rememberings
anchored down
by the box in my arms.
The wind snatches at my hair
changing it into one of the clouds
we used to watch
Where I now see your face
as I did that day in the sand,
cold and blue as the open water.
I wiggle my feet
down into the sand
as I whisper
Good-bye
to the laughing wind
that carries your voice.
I tip the box.
As the cards and pictures
and sketches and memories
rise up over the waltzing water
like so many winging gulls
I feel my heart break
free
from the frozen chains
it created
and all the hollow places
begin to fill
with the candy-coated rays
of the sun.
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