by Jennifer Brown

Dawn fog, thunderheads, cold front coming in,
wind from the plains, weather that weathers us—
we whether. Rain curtains. Blinds we cannot open.
The sea swells toward the heartland: kolpos,
Greek for bosom—it enfolds, is the seat
of rhythm, will not becalm. Whether we
are or not, it buoys, it ebbs, it is warm there
to plunge into. Another front shreds us here
& here, wrecks of weather—mercy what we find
or make in the flood’s path, what washes fair
on our shore, beached, irrevokable, exposed.
Refuse. The dead. The broken-beyond-repair.
We’ve weathered. Litter tossed on this
hard shore: storm-salvage, love, worn gift.