Dearest Isabel,
I am in the tarnish of cloud we sought.
I am walking in the graveyard
along the sea. I wander only the edge
where the questionable are buried,
their bones crumbling at the same rate as
the nuns resting higher up; Sisters
cradled together in encouraged sisterhood,
seeking to define viewpoint even in death.
There are no postcards to send from here,
no tiny stones to pick up and send to you, my
Dearest Isabel, only this small vial of soil for
your art
your life
your breath.
Though you disappear for years at a time,
there is no one who knows me
in the hidden ways you do
in my tarnish of cloud,
Dearest Isabel.
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