At the Estuary

Eelgrass flowing from the surface of the ocean

like the sea’s aqueous mane,

threaded gold

waving at each swell of tide

now and then

separated as though by fingers—

or like fringe, on the blue-green silk of a scarf

being shaken out.

 

It is hard to think of the time

when a hand, puny and limp,

will no longer be able to hold

 

a comb, or a new stem;

when hair thins and in clumps

falls, and something to have

been proud of once is lost—

 

Like the old egret who stiffens

at the lip of the estuary, eyes naked

and large, bare head and neck turning

to salt, river and air meeting behind him.