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Rising like a Winging Gull MAG
I am spiraling
 in a riptide of rememberings
 anchored down
 by the box in my arms.
 The wind snatches at my hair
 changing it into one of the clouds
 we used to watch
 Where I now see your face
 as I did that day in the sand,
 cold and blue as the open water.
 I wiggle my feet
 down into the sand
 as I whisper
 Good-bye
 to the laughing wind
 that carries your voice.
 I tip the box.
 As the cards and pictures
 and sketches and memories
 rise up over the waltzing water
 like so many winging gulls
 I feel my heart break
 free
 from the frozen chains
 it created
 and all the hollow places
 begin to fill
 with the candy-coated rays
 of the sun.

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