by Maria Caponi

Bark twist. I see you.
On my daily walk, ascending
the hill, 200 steps,
plunging downwards three blocks of concrete,
to the golden powder by the ocean.

Bark twist, you are.
By the side of the old
wooden stairs. Gray, brittle odd
shape husk as the back of two legs,
chest and head buried
in the soil, where we spread
your ashes, white fine dust.

Bark twist bends.
On the land where
my sons and I scattered you.
So much white powder. An urn full
dispersed under the canopy of
deep-rooted ancient trees.

Bark twist, shaped.
The weather-beaten wood
molded like a yoga down dog
reflecting sunlight. You didn’t like yoga,
you didn’t like to exercise, but
you would meditate.

Bark twist, in between
wild yellow flowers
exploding after the rains.
I imagine your soul
rising, giving me a sign,

after so many years still alive.

This poem and the picture appeared in the February OAP Newsletter, page 14