Poetry, Interludes

a butterfly,
hovers before me,
in a parking lot
no less messenger
of hope, 
vanishing

into some blue distance:

whole, winged,

always going home.

 

Struggling with unexpected fate
my tropical imagination
carries me still,
wanders 
among volcanic archipelagos,
remembers the Island of the Gods
in mango season.

Here, heat rises
from waterless pavements.
I walk to the "Memory Care" unit
the long beige hallway, too familiar now.
Bewildered eyes
sometimes regard me from wheelchairs.

The old man says,
"Take me home. I don't belong here".

If I could,
if I only could,
I would take us all home.
Instead, I bring fruit,
to share

imagining for them

mango season

in all its splendor.