The Islands

Linda Pastan

In paradise, a breeze
blows back our sheets each night
and leaves us almonds
on the pillow;

the volcano smolders
benignly -a side show
for our benefit;

we bathe our sins
in waterfalls;

so many flowering
air plants-the breaking
up of rainbows into particles
of blossom;

the prick on the tongue
of pineapple;

the shape of the serpent here
transformed to woven wreaths
of welcome;

and all the time
the surf-a kind of thorough bass,
God's voice beneath
the consciousness
of music.

Back home
we call it jet lag-
this compulsion
of the eyes to close for good
on winter.