Here, the morning sky appears

like a mosaic of colored glass

assembled by the trembling

fingers of sabal palms, then

lightly polished and pressed into

a thin-set of Biscayne blue. Low

clouds stretch in afterglow across

the horizon like long-tailed macaws,

and everywhere there’s a gross

profusion of blossoms and tangled

shoals of under-leaf, enveloping

a world still coveting summer and

overrun with scents of fresh citrus,

clove and a pleasurable alchemy

of salt mingled with the damp tang

of ash. Stranded here, I’d gladly

risk losing this artifice of malarial

light, and embrace a world and

weather in free fall, many miles

distant and weighted with darkness,

where bare boughs stand deep in

shadow and you can lose yourself

in sweater-cold air that is grizzled

with frost and woven like corn-

silk into the very fabric of things,

and all light is forever fading

and serves to illuminate only what

has been lost or remains absent.