my island is refuge
your island is refuge
for they bear the same name
ours

some call it sheltering
for surrounded by spits of land,
resting tween tines of two forks,
but storms come.  do damage.
the island recovers, inevitably as
humans and nature do a joint tented revival meeting

a project, new slip covers, fresh paint job,
we joke to ourselves

but on the heel of the isle
where our sturdy bungalow faces the
moody waters, the white capped breezes,
your chair neath the tree with the swing awaits, asking,
“when will the woodsman come,his tides flow away, away, to
why not here?

so many stories have I, poems to dictate,”
that silent observer says “his presence is required on this isle called

ours”

the currents announced as well,
an American blessing

“ready willing and Abel
to carry, to gift renew,
to the isle of refuge”

6/39/18. 8:08am