Carnival Sunday. July 19, 2020
Sometimes, I wake into perfect days.
Hills green my window, see me south
to cloud-high Sociere.
West is the blue bay: Choc,
pivoting round Walcott’s Island
in the lee of a land so fair
she still confounds the heart
again, each morning. Here, I am loved.
My modest work commended.
My few friends have not started to die.
And though I miss my mas’, it’s camp, color,
and my comrades in that phantasmal ark,
I am twice blessed this season,
by my children and their children.
In these bright, shortening hours
what more but to breathe in bristling hills,
turn west, and exhale to sparking sea.