On the south coast, seaweed rots

in tide pools, but the familiar smell

reminds me of other winters. Once,

the ripples from a skimmed stone

echoed across the surface of a lake

far longer than I thought possible.

A monarch slowly emerged from the wreck

of its chrysalis, then dried its wings

on my finger, before flying

into night. Further along the south coast,

dolphins invited me to swim in the crystal

water—how could they have known

it was New Years’ day? The concentric rings

left behind bounce back from shore,

building new patterns which are nevertheless

familiar. The day I moved out, another

butterfly flew through the garden. Recently,

I draw XIII again, and again—but this signifies

beginning, change, renewal, not

as previously believed, catastrophe.