My house faces the Blue Mountains of Jamaica.  All around me hundreds of butterflies flit joyfully in the morning flying from the mango trees to the Bougainvillea hedging. In the back yard they love the Soursop and Sweetsop trees, and even the cane stalks.  Mongooses dart, pause, then raise their heads before burrowing into the bushes.  Every morning the wood pecker wakes me with its drilling. The green parrots, loud and querulous, compete for the peas pods on the Gungo shrubs.  At least 5 species of birds, chirp, chortle, stutter and sing.

The breeze is lush, and I sit on either of my two verandas and hours pass seamlessly like waves in a still ocean.

At night the croaking lizards hum me to sleep.

I’ve been writing poems.  I’ve been dreaming. I’ve been blessing and helping to heal the world with my thoughts.  I’ve been deeply concerned about the indigent all over the world, but particularly in Jamaica, where it is so easy to leave others behind, despite the jargon of inclusivity.

I do not take my ease and privilege for granted. I share food with those in need when I can. I accept my copiousness, with gratitude.