Owl’s Head, Maine

In the flight path at water’s edge
The fog killed a woman
Her plane hit that rock over there
Six weeks ago
But she was alone – maybe
It was suicide.

She could have reached
Enlightenment in that cockpit
The fog would have known
If Heaven exists, fog
Is clearly a form of its power
Bridging ocean, plane, bridge
With the sky – now invisible
Like an opening to a time warp
The tiny water particles
Carrying, bouncing light of
Forgotten souls.

My ears hear boats and planes
Birds, an occasional human call
But all I see are the rocks and
Waves at my feet
Sometimes seaweed and a floating bird –
Fog covers what I think is there.

Should I trust my solipsismal ears?
Could these ebbing vibrations
Really be echoes of the past?
I reach forward to a burnt log
Of driftwood, carried through the
Maine inlets to heat s’mores
Or just warm wrinkled toes and fingers.

The wood was dead as the tree
Fell – unheard, unseen
And died again – drowned at sea
A third time as a match
Was held to one end and it caught
Now I break off three parts
For my next charcoal drawings,
Hurling the remainder
I hear a splash that sounds
Like it should as it hits water, but
Invisibly made
By the thick, radiant fog.