Each morning the cliff swallows hurry in
and out of nests, as if with purpose.
You never knew the ocean; that’s how it
differs from a mind with Alzheimer’s.
The flights of cormorants low over blue
water are dark threads, undone stitching.
Strands of seaweed clump where water and sand
meet, brittle tangles of memory.
You can ask for nothing more than a calm
evening, the cove brimming at high tide.