the dappled shade under the wild fig tree. A woven hammock is rigged so the hot summer afternoon can be spent in soporific meditation with a dapper pillow propping the hollow of my neck.
The green bower encloses my sense of solitaire and the escape from the daily farm routine.
In this soft blanket nest I dream of a passed ocean journey…
Sea spray high on the foredeck dipping and rising and I am with my children in uninhibited song. For sixteen days we have been furling sail in the equatorial seas, dancing in the squalls and eating endless meals of freshly caught tuna, cooked with the deft hand of only a cook’s imagination.
Alone on an ocean where a lonely high wave of the waters between two continents does bring a longing to put feet on land and to pick flowers. Until the day comes fashioned with the excitement when the…
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