Together in a rocking chair
on a porch at sunrise,
watching moths and fireflies
lay down to sleep,
singing birthday songs
to the God unseen inside
the orange she holds and smells,
and so he watches her,
watches the colors change,
her bare feet curling, pushing,
rocking, rocking,
rocking their lives into the day.
He reaches over to hold
her hand, tells of a walk
through lemon groves
and a white sand road,
by the sea he traveled,
in awe, in search,
downtown to a store
where all the great mysteries
of kites and wind,
of ginger and coconuts,
of mango and gin
joined together at the whim
of the old shopkeeper.
So together, so yearning,
and they felt the lure,
they felt the movement
of voices adored,
of sea shores and late meals...
Hours later, still hungry,
still rocking and holding hands,
still singing to the God
in oranges and Chinese kites,
still dreaming of the path to the store
that’s always there...
