Wildflowers Would Have Grown Well Here

The wind followed the cliff,

through dry grass and broken stone,

while far below,

the ocean turned white against the rocks

before disappearing again.

Nothing waited along the trail;

only small leaves held to earth,

and waves folded into themselves

beneath the darkened cliffs.

The wind had somewhere to return,

a familiar place beyond the water,

something certain waiting there.

Yet at the highest edge,

where blue consumed the distance,

and old color entered the grass

that had never been there.

Wildflowers would have grown well here.

The wind lingered among empty stems,

wondering why memory still called back

something so far behind.

The wind drifted toward home,

carrying nothing but salt

and the flowers that weren't there,

bitterly.