Clinging to the Rigging

The Bones of the Earth

She sails north to write of ice, melting as blue glaciers calve and oceans rise to swallow all, until, placing her ear to the cold metal mast, she hears through dark waters, miles away, sea lions singing, searching for mates, hoping for what they cannot, yet, see. So I place my ear to the bones of the earth, and hear down through rock to the hot liquid core, a whisper, a sigh, the groan of creation throb like a heart in the womb of the world.

The False Ceiling

I never met him but his sister said, not long before he died, he dreamt of slipping through a secret door to climb steep stairs above the hall, the Great Hall where, once, grownups sat, and where, between two floors, he crouched, a silent child, listening.

I never met him but his sister said that as she sat beside his bed, a day or two before he died, out across the lawn they saw a black bear with two newborn cubs saunter past and disappear.

I never met him but his sister said his grandniece who is not yet three was talking on her “telephone” three days after he had died to “Jimmy,” she said to her parents who didn’t know who “Jimmy” was. “Jimmy!” said Olivia, “Jimmy! Jimmy! Uncle Jim!”

I never met him but it seems to me the ceiling we perceive as solid is, in fact, as fine as mist, the threshold where two worlds merge, and each leaf, rustling, speaks of Jim.

Climbing

Cell phone in hand, my father climbs The ratlines of his gaff-rigged cutter, and Clinging to the rigging, calls, his voice So strong you’d never guess that in December He turns ninety. It’s after dinner when he calls, Light draining slow as darkness falls, and As he talks, I close my eyes to see him Perched against bare sky like an eagle, fierce And fading. As wrinkled waves beneath him Crawl, and shadows creep to swallow all, My father hovers, poised for flight, suspended Between day and night.