Day 21: Semi-Tropical

Window is how we frame seasons,
a pane of coolness, a sash
of leafage, we collect
ourselves in color, door
wreaths of pine and holly.

Having abandoned my place
of birth, riding the bus as far
north as it would take me,
coral, whelk and olive
in my pocket,
arriving to frozen water rigid
in broad daylight, snow everywhere.

There was no drinking away
the taste of guava, grits
or fried mullet, mangoes
and avocados populated
my dreams, a longing of sand.

Once we went to the sea
all stone and coldness,
that was winter, my blood
burned, ice filled my eyes,
words jagged as ice, gulls
mournful, wind of exile.

Returning home with the thaw,
wet season and the tilt
that flowers the great storms
out upon the waters, names
recited, catalogued by destruction.

Eventually dry season settles in,
not something to call winter,
wind off the Gulf, windows
open, the benediction of place,
amongst shell and mangrove,
where no one was waiting.

Here, Moon is always singing
of sea, we are not her children
yet are comforted, there is no
singularity in this mouth, candle
lays its flame on tongue, we seek
the shore of season, archives
of leafage, that may save us
from ourselves and the impenetrable
motion of days, waves eroding us,
a full reliquary of shell and sand,
a sea filled with our names,
great flights of migration.

Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.Former cook, loves camping. Can be found on Twitter@PeachDelphine