the island’s delineating shape is not its realized limitations, nor a redoubtable defense against the elements or invaders of the mind
the skin of the land welcomes tides and waves as gentil lickings, a seductress’s first caressing volley enticing, firing but calming
even when the crashing contemptible violent contretemps come, the winter’s stormy wrath or hurricane tongue lashings of the fall, partially forgiven for its forced renewal, but only, but only so much
the island - my home, is not a prison but a happy imposition, its restrictions make inward looking, mirroring, front facing, a truthfulness demanding, our self-exploratory word surgeries are precious, precision treks, required to survive, then revive, declaim, then exclaim
we are island folk and though our island's firmament defined, it's poetry is ever unlimited