The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2007

POSTCARDS FROM FLORIDA: A Sonnet Sequence

I.  Spring

Out back behind the stooped abandoned shack,

A trashed old mattress soaks up rain and weed,

Half hidden by its sprouting, swamp root black

Mold yellow mildew flower gone to seed.

Thick lightning-charged drenched air croaks green; wind rests…

White egrets into mirrored sunlight break.

Two wood storks pluck stuffed cotton, stuff twig nests

In huge gnarled oak limbs stretched on slick burled lake.

Knee-deep in fish, blue herons pluck no catch.

The beached bed sags; rusts. Turtles climb up; snooze;

Climb down through buzzing roots where swamp eggs hatch.

Lone grandpa gator guards thatch swamp mud ooze –

     Scales skimming ancient moonlit steam, he sings

     Dusk’s swan song to a skeleton of springs.

II.  Snapshot

Where lake’s edge brushes cypresses and pines,

My white sleeve reaches toward her hot pink shirt

On water holding us where clouds blur lines

Of wet paint lilies – Brief impressions flirt,

Reflected leaves reflecting just this light

Absorbed by it – Where do we end; begin?

A gator head appears, brute massive might

Submerged in armor, Eden’s fallen kin;

His head sinks slowly – What’s it like below

Spring’s surface flash? – One breath, he reappears,

More perfect rippling rings move out, one slow

Eternal scheme of motion cracking mirrors –

     Our poses wrinkle; dark leaves sink, one floats

     Through us through shadows deep as sunken boats.

III.  Hurricane Charley

                        for Cheryl

We pass the day in champagne candlelight.

All lamps blown out, with storm surge barging in,

Wind’s ruthless vengeance (breathless love’s a slight

To her gasps wheezing) explicates our sin.

This frenzied jilted lover not the squall

Of soon to be ex-husband, more like God,

Our mother-earth-in-law with southern drawl,

All arms outstretched to squeeze us like a squad

Of crazed ecologists would smother, drown

Crooks poisoning thin air. Wind’s point yelled loud

Sucks in. God’s eye of clear blue sun glares down,

The still point in a Taoist wheel of cloud

     Cranks up its knockout blow, while blind romance

     Scales toppled trees and joins the wild waves’ dance.

IV.  Roseate Spoonbill

Flamingo wannabe, your flat broad beak,

Long neck and ruby-eyed bald head swings left,

Swings right through shell rough ocean, scorning chic –

Your diva sister’s neck the treble clef

That pecks fresh sushi laced with chemical

To perk her pink; your pink wades naturál

As fish strike nerves and beak snaps shut, this shoal

Your matron’s stout strut at the turtles’ ball.

The princess strides with clipped wing “flight,” her splash

Stiletto deep in wine magenta pools

Where sunset leans on palms and tourists flash

Not your kind burning air with gaudy jewels.

     Her zoo of no escape grants room and board.

     Your scoured salt sundown’s life she can’t afford.

V.  Still Life with Mom in Hurricane

            Winter Haven, circa 2004

The angel’s dark eye passes by, but she

Won’t budge. Her lawn chair perch her trusty throne

And damned if she’ll uproot like some gnarled tree.

She puffs and wheezes, wind chime dancers blown

In cigarette swirls round her screened-in porch.

All power’s out, her oxygen tank dead,

Her cell phone conked, a flashlit drag’s her torch.

She squints through crossword puzzles, notepads shred

Their scrawled out hands of bridge – she plays all four

And wins and sips martinis, then it’s “mud”

(Stale coffee). Spooky typhoon buckets pour,

Her neighbor’s roof rips off, black condos flood,

     Drowned golf course howls – But hell, this cyclone blast

     Is not her first, it sure won’t be her last.

VI.  The Florida Mafia

We stroll starved past the Riverside Café

To catch some late noon rays before it rains,

To watch plump pelicans bombard the bay

Where fisherfolk gut carp in blood pool stains;

We glimpse a huge black splashing arc of – fish?

A shark? Huge dolphin? – Mondo manatee!

No two, three – Racing back we watch blobs swish

Two feet below our stretch of dock – freak spree

Of eight scarred whiskered glugging blimps so slow

The ninth godfather stalls – our new pal, Al.

Gruff mellowed mugs tail yachts as clouds drag low,

Till thunder bumps us back toward chow – Oh wow!

     There’s Al, transfigured into human form!

     Bald portly snowbird chugging through the storm.

(Note: Florida “snowbirds” are retirees who spend their summers up north.)

Beth Houston