I
The taste of you clings to me
like a skin of memory.
I find myself touching
the echoes of words
tracing the outlines that linger
pale ghosts in the air.
II
Grief is like an instrument
that sharpens the edges of the world.
Each blade of harakeke
is polished by the sun.
Each stone on the beach
tells its own story.
She says to me
Death is like salt and pepper.
The salt of tears
Ashes tossed by the wind.