i thank alder trees for a map
out of your shards of night music.
broken fingers, asthmatic wind – still:
tracing their fissured bark, i uncovered
a path. somewhere a sea darkens.
somewhere, a boat exists.
i walked along friable cliffs. ignorant
of warnings posted at the other
end of the trail. the cliffs crooked.
the path half deleted. the swell of salt
below. i could have stopped.
but secretly enjoyed unthinkable
perils. what if. and if not,
that too must mean something.