The pace of warm air

Lately something has slowed me,

asking that I match,

the pace of warm air,

the kind that ripens and sweetens tropical fruit.

days move by, slowly.

heating like hot sand,

run through quickly.

I watch the ocean

as she slams herself, against the rocks.

as if needing to confirm

the truth of her own existence.

currents pull me out, and waves take me back.

I watch a love story between sun and sea

most evenings

the way he lays a sheet of golden light

gently over her shore

as if to say

goodnight

and love warm

until morning bright.