This great education in solitude—

The island instructor. The island itself.

The pillbox apartment. The thin bedding and thinner walls. The growl of the electric kettle in the morning and automated seven am alarm through the town speakers.

Standing on cold hardwood as winter enters with the wind through these non-insulated walls.

The countless articles and songs— the gentle sway as I peruse the words available to describe a time only my eyes will see.

I’m reminded of my family cabin— with the brisk air and shivered mornings.

The bitter scent of black coffee and soft rustle of turned pages.

I’m sure I repeat stories or thoughts as I write or talk on the phone.

The apartment can be an echo chamber— thoughts cast off come crashing back.

Like a Bowerbird, I’m searching for the right kind of blue.

On this island— surrounded by the ocean— there’s a bounty of blues and greens. A multitude of hues that stick on the edge of one another. Linked in a slow ripple— like a lazy toss over a thawing pond.