Saturday, December 31, 2016

Far Niente

Far Niente

I wake to the night squalls of Playa Bonita
in my bed in the loft of the house, Far Niente,
and I hear the wind as if I am inside conch shell;
the rustling thatch.  
With the light skies, I idle with the shadows
of coconut palms as the house fills below me.
My son slides the heavy louvre doors,
opening the mouth of Far Niente to the day; 
the smell of coffee.
Still I am lulled by the surf as my grandchildren stir,
rubbing their eyes into the vision of here,
all together in one house: dads, cousins, moms,
and me who lingers upstairs dreaming the dream of us,
wave upon wave. 


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