Sunset on the Beach

Here's a poem I wrote last fall.

Sometimes my daughter and I waltz on the beach.

I bow, she curtsies, and music rises from across the world.

How gracefully evening serenades the sea.

Does the foam know

those wind-whipped harmonies

are a dirge?

What if the star that winks our cadence

has already burst,

scattering dregs of afterglow

over our wishing?

Would the shattered spindle curse her

Even as she reaches almost far enough to touch

evening's first pinprick.

The sun is just over 8 light-minutes from my head. That half-circle

nesting on the horizon makes up 99.8 percent

of the mass in the solar system. And then there's Jupiter.

We are only an asterisk.

Why can't I just dance and wish for unicorns?

Until now, I've mostly hidden my faults.

And while she still orbits me,

Other lights, brighter,

more massive, threaten to collide.

Her clapping hands will always fit between my fingers, won't they?

I capture this moment. My fists are strong to clasp it to my heart.

The next wave laps my ankle and my daughter's hand

slips from mine as she dances up the beach without me.