There is a pattern here, of ocean waves and weightless wandering. Where the moonlight caresses the rough contours of soul like a stream soothing the rugged edges of a stone. Slow, cool, patient in it’s descent to the sea, warmed by smiles like the sun, tickled by drooping fern fronds, and the wiggling of small fish.
Scuttling about on the nimble feet of an island crab, I am gathering meaty treats washed ashore by the waves. Humming into the shadows, I harmonize with frogs and beetles that ‘whir’ in the darkness that stirs beneath my hammock.
Lazy and amicable, I am a harbor seal basking in heated lassitude on a sunday afternoon with a cold brew. My sun hat shades the contours of my face from the red slap of Spring, layering on the SPF that whiffs of Plumeria and camp fire smoke.
Huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf, hauling bags of melting ice across the scorching remains of volcanoes, making a wet line all the way to my cooler.
The soundtrack is a hiss, click, sway, keawe thorn ‘ouch’, bump, slide, thumb to hitch a ride, flip-flop of a rubba slippa, click-clack of chop sticks (I lost my plastic fork), sand in the shorts ‘wipe’ sheepish grin, splash, hiss of tire pressure released for the beach drive ‘sssssssss’, crackle of the fire, curse as my hot dog falls in, creak of my hammock rope rubbing the tree bough, rustle of pages ‘damn where is my pen?’, rain shower catching me a mile from camp where my skirt slaps wetly on my legs and I smile ‘cuz there aint no complaining about warm puddles, and a sigh as I think of what could have been, what may have been, and the promise of a hop skip n a jump to the next island… Wish I had wings…
Spam and rice… For breakfast?? Mangos left by an unknown saint, right there on my table.
Call me Rose, call me Flower, call me Princess of Polihale- I will even wear that daisy crown.
When faced with such beauty,
One cannot help,
But bow down.