November 5, 2012
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.