Window is how we frame seasons,
a pane of coolness, a sash
of leafage, we collect
ourselves in color, door
wreaths of pine and holly.

Having abandoned my place
of birth, riding the bus as far
north as it would take me,
coral, whelk and olive
in my pocket,
arriving to frozen water rigid
in broad daylight, snow everywhere.

There was no drinking away
the taste of guava, grits
or fried mullet, mangoes
and avocados populated
my dreams, a longing of sand.

Once we went to the sea
all stone and coldness,
that was winter, my blood
burned, ice filled my eyes,
words jagged as ice, gulls
mournful, wind of exile.

Returning home with the thaw,
wet season and the tilt
that flowers the great storms
out upon the waters, names
recited, catalogued by destruction.

Eventually dry season settles in,
not something to call winter,
wind off the Gulf, windows