Breeze, not gentle, not brisk
Clicking palm fronds rhythmic taps
The seas timeless surf
My mother across the table sunning her already wrinkled skin, her rings hanging too loosely on her no longer, but forever married, widows hands.
Cousin Carol cross-wording in the shady corner
Four o'clock sun lingering on my neck.
We are good companions as we journey
Surely
Into our shadows.
