At the Estuary

Eelgrass flowing from the surface of the ocean



like the sea’s aqueous mane,



threaded gold



waving at each swell of tide



now and then



separated as though by fingers—



or like fringe, on the blue-green silk of a scarf



being shaken out.



 



It is hard to think of the time



when a hand, puny and limp,



will no longer be able to hold



 



a comb, or a new stem;



when hair thins and in clumps



falls, and something to have



been proud of once is lost—



 



Like the old egret who stiffens



at the lip of the estuary, eyes naked



and large, bare head and neck turning



to salt, river and air meeting behind him.