Seduced by the promise of a rising sun in the east,
The brief pastel, mist-clothed morning eluded her.
Mathew and his sister, Sea
Sailed up the coast to visit me.
Below the ramparts there the canon will belch fire,
And thunderous blasts bellow across the bay.
Black powder clouds will swirl in blue sky,
And perfume a passing breeze with adventure.
As the sun rises over these pyramids,
Does it warm the fourteen hundred below
And rouse them from their collective sleep?
Crowded there, do some still swap tales of the Seminole
And debate the merits of their cause?
Do some bow their heads in prayer? Do some weep?
The Jubilee approached St. Augustine Inlet
In the calm-watered, first light of the morning.
Unknown to her captain, three leagues east
An exceedingly strong storm was forming.
The gates of St Augustine are open, letting everyone in.
They welcome the Kansans, Hawaiians, and Mississippians.
They welcome big bellies, and those who spend time at the gym,
As well as the pious and those who can’t shake some great sin.
But, they all pray for epiphany before they head home once again.
I am touched by
maroon window trim
broken moss blackened shutters
a blackened planter of purple flowers