“The darkened copies of all the trees…”

leave shadows.

Howl of the coyotes slinking through the chaparral

they sing a whole bucket of pleas

our hearts are only free when we let them be

watching as time dwindles in the wind

feeling the chill of the Pacific fog rolling in-

it floats, it settles,

blanketing the dunes in an impervious grey haze

that chill, the resonance of a freight train rambling down rusty tracks

all conjure acute feelings of the past

driving through the dew drunk fields

of broccoli, asparagus, delphinium

a maze of green-

fog salt sea

wind that whips about one’s body.

The cemetery sits sedately on a hill side

minding those of the eternal

looming over the half dead valley

that’s where he remains,

a corpse in a grave;

a body who succumbed too soon-

love was reduced to rot and ash

leaving only silence and crumbling memories.

Impossible to anticipate the impact

of such a thing on Halloween

a shock that drains the color from

one’s memories

a pain that wanes but never dissipates,

eternal longing for a conversation

that will never be had.

Yet the fog rolled in that day

and the next,

the house on K st. remains

a ramshackle remnant

of days passed.

Highway 1 continues to wind

crookedly through the coast line

and the serene cemetery

never stops keeping watch.