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
the currents announced as well, an American blessing
“ready willing and Abel to carry, to gift renew, to the isle of refuge”