An English In Kentucky



















September 18th 2009

sept_17_bamb_2.jpg (39246 bytes)

    Wet mornings at this time of year, when rain comes up at us from the South, I sometimes think I can smell a palm tree.  And I know which palm tree it is I can smell, because there is a picture of it in my mind.

    It grows on an island that never has seen suntan lotion.  And on the beach at its feet, there rests the back of a broken ship that had ran afoul of coral reefs sometime in the nineteen thirties during a terrible storm.  

    Through the day this palm tree watches soft waves upon long beds of sand.  At night it looks up to the Milky Way and it plots the course of those twinkling stars that are jet liners carrying people with credit cards.


    I could say that I would like to touch this tree again.  I could say that I would like to watch its fronds wave and taste the salt on my skin.  Try to find the Chameleon that lives around it.  Slaughter hermit crabs for lobster bait.  But this would be dishonest of me.

     It is enough to believe I can smell this tree when the season falls toward winter cold.  And then on a cloudless night with frost on the ground, know that we both can see the Milky Way. 

sept_17_bamb_1.jpg (37727 bytes)

tim candler

Previous  Next

(coconut crab