Morning Wind on the Ridge
The wind lifts the brim of my hat. My palm presses it down and holds. The tips of my ears sting, and my knuckles are white. My body leans into the wind and stands straight again. What stays in my palm is the edge of the brim.
In the hours when salt settles on the back of the hand holding the hat brim, broken shells lie scattered along the coastal path like old moonlight. The wind rolls the shell fragments as it passes.
When I brushed the salt pressed into my fingertips, beneath it was neither ridge nor sea, but fallen leaves crushed fine as shell fragments, lodged in the soles of my shoes.
The cherry blossoms on the walking path have already fallen; only the wind remains, sweeping the road. That wind blew in the same direction all day. I walked that way.