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8 Most days of my visit, for a while, I escape the enormous oak where scattered bread attracts dozens of mourning doves. My skin, grown middle-aged in a southwestern desert, is hugged by the balmy Florida morning; a dad wraps his arms around a small daughter. On the way to the bayou I pick up a sweet scent-- the white blossoms of what look like baby limes. After a man, cutting grass nearby, informs me they are sour dwarf oranges, I find one that color, then move on under Spanish moss, the tangles in my father's brain-- diagnosed with a long name belonging to someone else. Farther on I disturb minuscule lizards on the trunk of a palm tree; yet, at salty water my presence doesn't ruffle herons. When I try a swing in the sandy playground, I have to keep my legs straight out, and the rusty chains strain and creak like regret. By the bayou's edge I find a shaded bench my dad could share with me if only he liked to take walks. Here we'd watch red dragonflies and green birds: feral parrots or parakeets. Alone, I notice that a bush half hides an egret-- the neck and head a question mark. |
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Issue #33, June, 2003 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.