clouds umbrelled the shore
as we walked on along
sea shells and weeds pulled
in by a storm tide.
this is the house of the
fisherman who tried
to help papi save his boat,
and this is the river from
where the mud flows into
the ocean making it brown.
littered with pink and pearl
shards of something to pick up,
we leave footprints in the sand.
this is my beautiful island, she says.
being of the place, from it,
planted firmly in its mountains
where the sugar cane grew,
the orange of the flamboyan florishes.
plant a seed in the clay and in a year,
a tall palm grows, shade for coqui,
whose rythmed chirps measure moments.
this is her island, its beauty
marked in her way and flight
across the sands that welcome
waves of life from shores beyond.
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