My grandfather rushes toward me
as I squeeze the accordion of memory,
my music filled with him and that swing
he hung in the live oak tree, its rough
canvas seat trained on the rolling
swells of the steel-grey blue Pacific.
I’m a pendulum, carving a long arc
into brightness before falling back
into shade, the darkness lit by butterflies,
red blossoms, yellow stamens of the Royal
Poinciana tree. Fragile hibiscus lined out
in the distance like trees in an orchard.
Breakfast at a glass table, sunlight glow
on melon, raspberries, soft-boiled eggs.
The cool fog lifts and the day turns warm,
everything expectant, and we, filled now,
descend to the cactus garden —the boulders
sun-warm, rattlesnakes down there somewhere.
Fall brings a certain light. I’m older now
than he was then. I watch the ocean flood
the river’s mouth — fill, empty, fill —
the beat of the osprey’s wings. How is it
your breath can fool you? How is it you
imagine you can avoid the end of things?
Virginia Sullivan is a poet and design educator interested in family history, place, and our changing relationship with the natural world. She is working on a chapbook and lives in Northampton.