Remembering
My fingers crush the brittle leaves
small sticks remain
pungent, sharp, the smell of dry heat
songs of cicadas harkened
bees humming among wild brush
sweet thyme honey their work’s product
Sun-baked earth, light not quite blinding
free of damp and dark
scent of the sea, its salty brine
the Meltemi arrives
hair whipped by her coming
Memory prompts always lead to poignant, true writing. Thank you for being willing to write like this, Sheila.