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. 

2016

mhn