Trade winds rustled palm frontons
like fingernails scratching sandpaper.
Waves with no intention
of leaving roll onto forever white
sand, quickly reforming for the next
round. Midday’s warmth builds into
layered heat. Shade is gold as
the coolness circles the skin, refreshing
like a shower of air. Emerald green
water continues to fold over on itself.
Winds birthed at the equator remain
strong until night shadows brush
them away. Tomorrow’s sun patiently
waits to return. Rest finally comes to the
island.
Roger Singer 