A Floridian Scrapbook

There is no winter here. The summer is eternal.
If one listens carefully, one can hear
the subtle wingbeats of the birds overhead.

Those black birds ― numerous
and nameless ― stalk the skies
that are so serenely spotted
with sculpted, billowing clouds.

One tends to wonder, during the eternal summers,
why the birds don’t get trapped in clouds. As
a child, one asks these sorts of questions. As
a poet, one returns to them.

There is no winter here.

No gentle snowfalls blanket the landscape with silence.
Christmas feels no different than the Fourth
of July, some years. The summer is eternal. The birds
continue to swoop and dive through landscapes
that are sculpted by faceless men.
They sometimes forsake the company of the clouds
for the canopy of castles. The men are numerous
and nameless, and they shape the world
around the passerby. One wonders
why the hedges don’t rebel
against their abusers. As
a poet, one asks such questions. One notices
that the roadsides collect dust and grime
over days of rainfall, but are only pressure-cleaned
every few months. One wonders
how the roads feel about being so filthy. One wonders
if the pressure-cleaners hurt. One wonders
how the roads endure ― driven over and stomped on
and bombarded with water that they never asked for. As
a child, or a poet, one asks such questions.

The dead, stale air of the summer clings to one’s skin.

The summer is eternal.

I don’t know where I’ll go from here,
but I know what will remain:
the palms and beaches are still in my heart,
even though I’ve sworn not to return.

I know I’ll be back. I’ll be drawn by the breeze
and the smell of saltwater seas.
I can still feel the sun
forever calling me home.

How the rains cleanse us,
it is difficult to know.
Salt spray is alive in each drop
of condensation, and they sparkle
as the hologram of my soul.

I walk out into the dampness and hear

distant music.

I would like to capture it; I would like
to make it mine. I would shape the sounds,
and make them cry. I would squeeze
every last raindrop from their eyes, and taste
the salt that hovers within each one.

I would sing the palm trees to life
with my thunderclaps, harnessing
the energy I would capture.

The music would tickle the edges of the sky,
and cleanse them, spreading
each singular musical memory
through the particles of salt
that fall from my eyes.

There are always outliers
atop the hedges, jutting tendrils
of leaves which refuse to obey.

Through the gaps in the ficus,
the occasional car
passes by, leaving air molecules disturbed
in its wake. The sound is like a dissatisfied beast,
grumbling as it is awoken from its slumber.

How green and blue can clash
so much, it is a mystery, and why
they have such simple names is also
unknown to me.

Rebel branches are reminiscent of fingers, reaching
into the expanse of sky above and defying
the shapeliness otherwise imposed on the ficus hedges.

The air smells of suppressed serenity
here; whispers that have smells, and smells
that have whispers, waft to my tympanic membrane.

The vivace of the birds is unceasing.

It is the march of the living, defying the beasts,
and embracing the gentle battle of green and blue.
Harmony is a side effect of discomfort between equals.

The trees have taught us this, yet we forget it
when the holes in the ficus hedges reveal the machines.

The outliers only want freedom, and I say let them be.

But, inevitably, the hedge-trimmers will come.

All around me, shining,
is an endless green,
until the sun-stained shores
at the edge of the sea.

Can you feel the sting
of the lashing surf?
Can you hear the voice
of the ocean, risen?

One day, the rain came violently.
It was a siege
upon the landscape,
water-bullets
flung from Gatling guns.
The sky-guns continued to open fire
pummeling the hardy blades of grass.
The sun-soaked skies gave way
to the harrowing aggressions
of atmospheric soldiers.

One must look directly at the clouds,
which are revealed by the absence of light.

Note the gaps in the stars above.

There are ever fewer stars
each time I revisit this latitude.
There are ever fewer stars
in my sky.

As a thunderstorm rolls in, I feel
the inexplicable need to run out into the rain.