You see the storm before
tiny hail stones ping off
my long-billed cap
as I run the trail. You know

three poems I’ve written
about you will be published
before I receive
the acceptance email.

You hear the robin sing
before she opens her mouth.
You smell the wild roses
along East Chop Drive

before I reach the island.

You hear my ginger scent
shatter into tiny pieces
on the bathroom floor
before I put it on the shelf.

You taste the moonlight
before I catch it
on the tip of my tongue—
every time.

You swim across the wake
before the dinghy with my name on it
is dragged from the rocky beach
into the water. You laugh

at the bubbles
before I find the maker
machine on the porch
to a century and a half old hotel.

You say “tragic”
before it happens.

You sense the plane
taking off before I board
to fly back
to Cleveland to attend

your funeral. You wave good-bye

to the fog before it drapes
the sky above the ocean,
concealing all doubt.
You see the ferry emerge

on the horizon before
it leaves Woods Hole.
You wipe my tears before
I feel dampness on my cheek.