I wanted to invite you to the island,
to walk Briscoe Point Beach
and dig butter clams at low tide.
We would lug the once-hidden treasures,
sharing our burdens as we laughed 
our way uphill to my backwoods cabin.

I wanted you to ask me why
I added cornmeal to the soaking clams,
so I could gently remind you that
every being has a way to cleanse itself.

Later we would sit together
by the old rock-rimmed fire pit,
scaffold cedar shavings and kindling,
then add twigs, larger limbs, and split logs.
We would place each piece carefully
as if it were a fragile episode resurrected
from the years we shared.

When the fire and the silence grew large,
I would set the clam pot on the blaze
and watch flames lick its metal edge.
I wanted you to suggest
we put a lid on it, shorten the suffering.
But I was afraid I might cry
and you might leave;
so much easier to say nothing
and quietly devour our sweet bounty.

But now, now it is too late;
I sold the cabin;
you and the embers are gone.
                        

Paw print prayer flags
wag a sideways hello
in the gentle autumn breeze
giving the greeting
my best friend's tail
no longer can.