Somewhere deep in your pockets 
is the gold ring your mother gave you with all 
her answers, before you ventured off 

to Moose Park
on the southern coast of Maine;

where the waves rose like the adult
that lurked in the last carefree days of youth
to kiss the fog, concealing
the bay that is the ocean
contained, dressed in gray with tasseled hems.

Almost lost among the shells,
sand and seaweed that liter the landscape.

The moon settles in
to the haze of evening, just above 
the pines lining the shore,

climbing the summit where I found you
watching the sea in the distance
swallow the sun

with a shot of evening, laughing
at the ease all the reds rushed to purple
but dreading the journey to dawn.


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