Hard ground etching on Rives BFK
Her hair was tangled with the setting sun
as carefully, she knelt and watched the sea
anemone. The black sand glittering
the tide pool’s edge was pulverized remains
of pyroclastic screams. The ocean’s surge
did not disturb the sheltered remnants of
renewal. “Look,” she said, and stroked the green
and purple fringe and watched it close, “I think
I know exactly how you feel. But don’t
you see? You have responsibilities.
You can’t just throw away the things you fought. . .
the things we both have fought and struggled for.
It isn’t right for you to even ask.”
The amber afternoon was breaking up.
The yellow, orange and purple sky and sea
dissolved together into gray and black.
“I think it’s time that we were going home.”