in response to G.G. Silverman’s “Lighthouse at the Edge of the World”
The wind takes our words
leaving silent lips mouthing awe —
what’s unspoken is understood
through our suctioned palms.
Atop my father’s shoulders now, gusts twirl
my hair into knots, glaze my widened gaze with sticky salt;
is it sea or sky lacing between my fingers?
Sweeps of light cast then erase our willowy shadow –
we are a lone tree wavering on the edge of the world,
listening to the language of settling seas,
the old lighthouse speaking its warnings,
waves pounding – or is that our heartbeats?