by Elizabeth Southwood
Gray white-edged clouds
of white blossoms seeming to sweep them
along like quaint hearth brooms made from
ancient plum -- pale green lichen
crusting soft-gray limbs.
I hold on to you,
cautious from tripping.
Was the view always this clear?
Houses like white gift boxes
ribboned with waving greens,
rimmed on the far side by
slate-gray bay, camel hills and sky.
We stand on the edge
of the cliff every day.
I hang onto the plum’s rough trunk,
stare at the view...memorizing it with you.