Rain pelts my roof tonight, recalling the sand scouring the lid of my father's coffin.
The year before, as he swam in a timeless azheimeric sleep, I kissed his forehead
and whispered, Goodbye, Dad, as another dawn rose on South Florida's beaches.

One year later, blustery rainstorm dibbling
Northern New Mexico's high desert , I read
on a mesa's weathered brow:

What am I to myself
the must be remembered
insisted upon
so often?