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