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
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