Remove from the noble pine
The white strand of Christmas
Lights—a fact of isolation
And how the mothers stand
On chairs to reach higher branches—
This is your own reaching  
It’s there as the mothers are there
Not asking for January
Thick ropes of kelp buoy
On the surface of the sound
The driftwood not quite dry
The slick sticky green living
On stranded wood never thirsty
And how alone
Like all driftwood is
And how the air off the sound
Is not ever shy
Even when the mothers walk
Through it. You will cry
In high gasps with the pied
Oystercatcher and red your eyes
And grow your mouth
Red to scoop among rocks
As the tide swallows its fill
Or you will weep like pooled stones
In a receding tide of pebble-moaning
Altogether it remains
That the silence of a fog
Covered Rainier is the same
Visible silence of any mother
On any day unmentionably clear