At The End of the World

It is late in the day and the seagrass casts shadows
as it bends to the wind coming off the ocean.
Even now in late winter, there is color, warmth
you can see despite the cold that cuts beneath your skin.

It appears you will survive this winter,
another year past and begun, another change
of seasons, another transformation, and you wonder
how many resurrections are left in your bones.

There is melancholy there, and deep memories of joy
come and gone and come again. You have learned
just how fragile you are, and how strong,
and that death is a passing thing, less painful

than each life we cling to so rabidly, each version
and tale we tell ourselves rising and falling like dunes,
eternal and temporary both, no more permanent than seagrass,
and no less eternal.