Between the waves and trees

And here is my home,
with a sun-kissed glow sliding beneath my chin,
and the roar of sodium marking the design of my palm,
A thousand years, I slept hear,
On this tiny island of melancholy and hope

Ivory breath slipping from the cheeks
and I produce a wave of chestnuts from the ocean.
A song so quiet,
hunter's dream.
I now call this place a season of spring.

A dandelion rests on my checked skirt,
and I sit and pray, watching the sky.
What is this place so surreal?

A place of god's own language,
A pivot. A poet's muse.
There are things broken over here,
Peels of fruits and leftovers of waves.
Just like your kitchen leftover's bread.
I smile at this place,
my home of autumn skies,
wrapped like lemongrass tickling my skin, on evenings.

I grew up on this tiny little island.
On the sand of broken twigs,
tall trees,
like women of my age. Lithe.

Between the waves and trees

Slender shapes and walnut skin.
I ingest this home in my veins,
ingesting till the skin knows,
the wilderness of this place.