When the sun sinks in St. Croix,
winds pick up.
Not the howling gusts of storms,
but a rhythmic moaning.
An island in labor.
Cries giving birth.
To the next morn’s dawn.
Budding bougainvilleas.
Coconut dates.
Baby lizards.
Hermit crabs.
Snails.
Starfish.
To life itself.
And, to dreams.
The deepest kind.
The ones summoning people gone.
Parents.
Cousins.
Friends.
Revivifying them in slumber’s scenarios.
To touch.
Speak to.
Be heard again.
In a cocoon.
Of pulsating sounds.
Mysteries.
Restoration.
Until roosters, owls herald the day.
Swallow the wind.
Cede to breaking waves.
To blossoming fruits.
Lynn Benjamin
January 23, 2022