I lived about half my life in Tucson and about half my life
in Fairbanks, Alaska.
And one of my friends in Alaska was
the magnificent marine biologist Eva Saulitis.
She was a marine biologist, an oboe player,
a marvelous essayist, a fabulous poet,
and she died much too soon.
And this is "A Valentine for Eva".
"Impossible grace, all the rituals you created,
rituals that shaped your living, practices for each letting
go, each person you loved, even your best beloved.
Beehives and garden you could no longer tend,
the pen you couldn't hold to jot notes, lines,
images of whales battering Dall porpoises then gorging.
Though you're not there to see, not there to snap ID
photos of dorsal fins or back saddles,
not there to drop the pickle that lets you listen in
on the precise language distinct to this one clan,
this one tiny genetically distinct transient pod
of mammal-eating killer whales that you watched carefully
for more than half your life.
A family cut short by the spill, pod quietly not making babies,
as you did not make babies, though, you loved some fully.
Impossible that their genes like yours will not live on.
Though a new generation will move in to their hunting
grounds, a new set of predators will eat what they can find,
and new teams of scientists some trained by you
will watch glassing the calm water
or finding a snug cove to wait out the worst blows.
The wind so cold it could hollow your bones,
wind you longed for when you were too long confined inside,
cold, cutting, biting, wind that could kill you but never did.
Wind full of prayers, wind that followed you
from Silver Creek to Prince William Sound to Homer
to Kapaau, wind that confuses even the seas.
Air alive all over this Earth.
Air where you live.
Beloved become earth, become water, become fire,
become wind.
If you get a chance, her final book is called Becoming Earth,
and she wrote it when she knew she would not get well.
I recommend it to you most highly.