You'd been curled around the flower of twin
doubts: the potato sack race from the womb
and the wistful boat on fire, its cargo
of ash. You were a poem caught in body
absence, a shape consumed by light. Water
played its own inexplicable ballad,
extolling shadow and time. Waking you
found painful, especially before
a day in flames, as if the hard hours
might strike your name. Instead you slept through most
of the mourner's song, faded vessel with
significant moments of love. Mantra
of an aging river carries habits
of loss. Your eyes never saw the scorched sea.