For Toots

She’s not here.

But she is.

Not long ago,

she walked,

not far from where I sit,

on the beach,

writing these words

while the old husky squints and sleeps.

Out to sea I see pelicans fly,

lope a better verb.

A Coast Guard helicopter hovers offshore.

Someone went missing,

most likely the woman with dementia who lived on a bluff above this beach,

whose tracks midnight tracks led to the ocean.

Her son was moving her to Idaho the next morning

after 62 years in her home.

I see clouds at the midline,

frayed at the edges.

I can’t name them

although I am reading a book on clouds.

Sometimes naming drains magic from the world.

The waves break green and white.

I want to dive in with her,

go under,

go deep,

jump up,

embrace,

kiss,

unnerve others with our mystery,

break into vacant vacation rentals,

drink all their booze,

admire the stock seascapes

and lacquered gulls,

laugh,

at those clothed city fools,

and plan our collaborative nameless work,

otherwise known as life.