Each
velvet-soft frangipani memory
falls
on a bank then washes away
with
the tides into the light of the sea
hovering
between a darkness and a day.
An
old woman, with gnarled tree fingers
stoops
to pick a handful for her apron
but
waves flash one burst of gold and silver
snatch
them in and then forever darken.
A
sparrow pecks at mud for unseen insects
and
calls the flock and cocks its head and waits
and
rushing wings do come out and connect
but
all the same find nothing, it’s too late.
The
last ferry, with a blast on its horn, pulls
through
silk-dark rivers, frangipani petals.
