by Lucille Lang Day

    Black waves break in full
    moonlight, making
    liquid silver slip
    across the strand.  We
    step back from the froth,
    stand in the roar
    of surf, arms wrapped
    around each other
    while all the fires
    on the beach burn low
    and I dig my toes
    into icy sand.

    Graceful branches brush
    the sky.  It looks like
    all the other redwoods
    until we step inside
    the trunk, look up
    at a blue spot far above
    and kiss, touching
    the charred remains
    of the heartwood,
    knowing at least
    what it means
    to be empty inside.

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