Grief

You ask if I am sad.  Yes,
inconsolable.  My mind is on
the image of a dog’s ashes
scattered on the hem of the cold
weeping sea.

I picture my brother drinking
tea in a morning of San Francisco
in which no one must be taken
out to walk, and I say the sea
always weeps with good reason.

We claim to know the way
things work, heaven
and earth, life and death.
All we know is the path
through the iceplant and the trees, 
between the rocks and the sour
kelp; the fog dampened
sand, and goodbye.





                                       Kyle Kimberlin
                                        © 2000, 2002
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