Blades of sun-bleached 

            marram grass in unison 

 

gauge the cross breeze, 

            the same winds that now

 

shovel me toward this 

            seal fading unto rocks. 

 

With chapped lips, I mimic 

            the eiders unlike the way 

 

I mimicked you.  If only I

            could find the words I need 

 

most to say.  My wind burnt 

            face.  The sea mist.  The salt.