Writings by Tim Girvin
The Wind
This morning
the wind comes
textured with flavor

from the hillocks
and tumbled stones
below, as the tide

recedes in the
darker hours; it's
wildly tinctured

with seaweed
and salted decay, a
light scenting of

grass and dust,
dirt; and there,
in the last
tasting, a deep
green: heady
with oxygen.

The stars
define the path:
heavendome, waterbowl.

I make myself
a cup of coffee,
adding, in the dark,

a spoonful
of espresso, instead
of sugar

and this scent
explodes, an unsweet
efflorescence;

and, still
alive at this
early hour,

the fire churns
a last sputtering,
signaling:

more -- is vital;
heat, as I am now --
awakened.

tsg / decatur island

(Originally sent: September 10, 2005)

< Back