Letters from Alaska: Journal for the Departed

 I'm boarding a ship bound for the land of the living;
a ship, here in the river mud

it might just look like pages

but look closer

Pretend that these  bleeding-ink storm clouds are waves
frozen in time about to crash

There is no ocean here.

One foot on shore

Another in the forest

My heartbeat rises and falls with the tide
Shadows of memories flutter in the forest

Alive

They are here.

Old as the stones beneath the moss
Washed under the soil with the rain

Carried to the ocean, again.

With no memory of life.