On this cold autumn beach,
I stare at the waves
arriving from
every possible shore,

and I do not know
whether I am looking
forward or backward
through time—

as though memory
and hope were openings
in a double slit,

and every wave
could carry both
what has disappeared
and what has not
yet returned.

But I remember
the warmth,

the life that floated back
upon the waves,

and I want to believe—
I want to hope—
that this season
of death
is only temporary,

that somewhere
beyond the cold horizon,
the warmth
has already begun
its return.