511 Frances Street

At Curry Lane and Frances Street

A chartreuse bungalow sits

Behind a white picket fence,

Bougainvillea branches arching overhead.

Gate swings on rusty hinges

Its song plaintive yet welcoming.

Bags dropped at the old porch door

Key in lock, I am home.

Like an impatient child with an advent calendar,

I open all windows at once.

Gentle breezes rustle palm fronds

Twilight crickets chirp.

Dusk wears the perfume of plumeria and jasmine. 

I feel my skin come alive again

In the dew-drenched air.

I breathe in renewal,

Restoration, replenishment.

In this place of sanctuary, 

Where my feet are not bound by the rule of gravity,

I am most joyously, deeply, rooted.

Published in Nine Muses, May 2020