The moon is setting hard and cold,
turning sand to chalk and sea to milk.
Under the palms,
blue fronds floating on the breeze,
the old man sits, waits, writes,
for an instant he is young again:
snow falling on the grave, white stone,
his wife disappearing beneath the weight of snow,
his own back bent beneath the weight of snow,
cold air filling the mouth of their child.
The first rose of light
slips across mercury stained water,
a warm freshening breeze
lifts the ivory paper from his tablet,
pinwheels it across lustrous sand,
returns him to the next blank page.