Between Me and the Beach

Monarch Migration

In October, when the autumn settles in,

monarchs come to the island; in my yard

the weeds are full of little orange flowers,

butterflies feeding, resting, flying here and there.

Two weeks from now, and they will all be gone,

save for a sluggard handful, who have forgotten why they came.

Those few will still be here when winter comes in force

and they’ll make sorry tissue corpses for a day

before the wind blows them back into the sound.

The rest will be off south, miles over the gulf,

headed toward Mexico.  Some will make great fishes jump

and snatch them from the air and fall back with a splash

down toward the deep dark blue.  Some will catch an erring wind

or a surprising wave which brings them down.  Some will make snacks

for seabirds ranging wide in search of lunch.  The few far-farers who reach land,

tiny voyagers through wind and over sea, will well deserve their rest.

May mariachi bands sing them their rapt repose.

December Meteor

Lights green and red and white sing Christmas cheer

long down the island far as eye can reach;

a sand-speck in the upper atmosphere

ignites in cold and silent winter fires,

streaks for a second, winks out and expires

miles, miles above her sisters on the beach.

Chinese Evening

Unseen whistlers singing in the brush;

forty-seven dumplings, counted one by one

and served with laughter, mushrooms, beers and wines;

moon is rising in the day’s late hush;

herons black against the red of day’s late sun,

framed against the sunset by the pines.