Floridian leaves fall
and a gray branch is green again overnight.
The continuous sound of surf, sand, sunsets.
Hard shadows ... old forms sculpted to their benches
speaking photographs, reliving epiphanies;
Continuous shells to ears, gulls, noisy Spring breaks.
A maelstrom broken only
in the swirl of an occasional thunderstorm.
The saving grace of a mockingbird is paradise.
You cannot forget Pennsylvania
between the evening and the night
when in the Indian Summer
the ripe apples roll down the hillside.
The air fills your nose and heart.
Somewhere between the dawn and morning
on a branch outside
a song is rich and fertile
wild berries grow large
and around each corner children play.
Search in the never-ending flatness
and compare this to the magnificent blue-green valleys.
There can be no doubt.
Florida is a place to come to sit and dream
when you can no longer run
through the rest of the house.
- Bob Cain