THE ISLAND

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.

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