Wind swept to pollinate this exotic shore,
in which I am the exotic,
where concrete and jungle fight for dominance.
The gecko’s staccato squeaking,
a lonely call for the momentary chill of rain,
breaks through night’s heat.
I long to join his call, praying for the deluge,
a monsoon to cleanse this ache for home.
For when I close my eyes,
I can still feel the Savannah twilight heavy on my shoulders,
can still smell sea salted marshes,
slow Southern days ingrained in my bones,
echoes of the cricket’s chirp drowning out the tropical murmurs.
But both are part of me now, edges indistinguishable.
Can you taste it? Comfort and spice that pulse steady within.
Home, you ask, as I examine these rootless feet.