Memory

Trees hunch over sky; skin 
and hard-bone cliffs.

Come winter: beards of ice,
grunting stone. That day

I walked into surf, wore a shawl
of sea spray.

Still in her armchair, my grandmother wades
past headlands

to open ocean where waves 
wrestle and refract.

And then farther: there, the sky 
is unbroken and the wind

never blows. Her returning rain
sews green to grass.