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)
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