My daughter, who lives with her mother, wanders
Schoodic point with my sister-in-law, and me. Mist surrounds us.
Spruce and jack pine recede behind the weathered air.
They don’t grow on the ledge, but warn us against being fooled
by breakers who’s song will distract us from our footing
on those pink granite dunes.
My daughter, who lives with her mother, forages
above the sea’s edge. Steps over pools collected
in shear rock spoons. Balances herself on basalt blocks,
volcanic dikes that divide the stumbled granite leviathans.
Fractured millions of years ago, lava filled their cracks black,
bound them apart.
My daughter, who lives with her mother, perches
on the far end of a pink and black bevy of stone pedestals,
her arms outstretched. My sister-in-law holds the camera,
waits for a rogue wave to hit the broken crags below.
Sprays of froth and brine smash into the soft sky,
complete the scene.
My daughter, who lives with her mother, poses
for my sister-in-law. She will not pose for me.
For me she will clown and gawk, or blush and hide.
The basalt dikes, crushed by the granite they divided,
crumble into steps that span old fissures
between the worn monoliths.
My daughter, who lives with her mother, smiles,
elevated from where I stand, crowned by stolid haze,
peers down at me. One arm raised higher than the other,
like a ship’s signalman in need of flags, she pierces the fog
collected above the stone, the pools, the dikes,
message heavy on her arms.