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

to a place called Moose Park
on the southern coast

of Maine: where the waves rose;
to kiss the fog, concealing
the bay that is the ocean
running free

like your adult
that lurked in those last care free days
of youth; where evening tumbles
from the edge of the world.

Dressed in cinnamon with tassels
hemmed, almost lost
among the shells sand and seaweed
that litter 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 night, laughing
at the ease all the reds rushed to purple
but dreading the journey to dawn