Wind

Palm trees are my business:
A landscape framed against a limb,
The fronds that rear and hiss
While I scrape by above them,

With the breeze and ocean foam
That shape my life, the clatter
Of the growing floods that comb
The bay, the rains that patter

On the tin, the rustling canopies
Like the curtains of a room
Or the waves that ring the cays
With monstrous whistling spume,

Dawn soaking in the sand like tide,
As if sunlight could disguise
The clouds where fevers hide
And flame the evening in the skies.