7/18/02
In a tropical place, the climate
becomes a way of being.
Fruits and flowers on shirts and dresses,
breakfasts of bananas,
pineapple flavored passions of
afternoon, pathways to the moon on
evening seas, coconut-milk tipped waves at dawn,
palms tilting horizons and gulls gliding
the edge of time.
Yet, where I live does not define me.
Not like the Irish dairymen, who
rain or shine, milk cows they
could easily set their clocks by.
Here on this perfect stretch of sand,
I am rootless - envious
of those who have never moved.
I feel puppet-ized by modern life;
a little schizoid - liking where I am,
hearing the voices, while
a part of me pines
for pastoral beginnings.
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