The Cove

I’m resting on a tide-bleached tree, and you
are looking for stones. Like we’ve always done,
from back when our son was little. But now,
it’s up to us to fill in the bucket. Stones lapped
smooth by the force of the moon. Pigmented
in colors of sibling planets. Mars-red. Jupiters
with ghostly rings. You’re too far away to hear,
and there is no pain, so I won’t make a fuss. It’s just
thumps in my throat. My pulse runs up numbers
on the screen of my watch, even as I sit here, still.
My mind re-walks the trail through the forest
to where the headlands open. Down the switchback.
Past fallen old growths, their upended roots spider
towards the sky. We’re the only ones who hiked here
today. Even if there were cell coverage, how many hours
before help arrives? So, breathe, bear down on the abdomen
like the cardiologist said. Listen to the wind rush
into this mouth of salinity. This cove, embraced by hills
that shoulder hemlocks. Lava born from the mantel,
cooled into outcrops, carved to pool star fish and purple
anemones. Home of endless give and take.