In this salt wind city
we take grief in both hands
dress her in poster paint blue
and lay her in damp earth.
When the flowers are dead
she packs her things
rises up past remembrance
into the permanence of stone.
In this city
we grow up
and not out.
After the fire
when grief is swept up
we travel to where rivers meet
and somebody important
a long time ago
did something we do not remember
but worship still.
Of what is left
with salt on our tongues
we plant lemon trees
in old homes.
They will grow to gentle scent
both up and out.
And when grief is a stranger
too large for both hands
we seek no damp earth
or certain stone.
We ache in absences
our muscles remember
salt is heavy on our breath
the sea is not far.
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