A new poem inspired by travel during the season.
The cotton bloomed
on brittle brown stalks,
still standing, waiting for a late harvest.
The pale fog materialized,
too thick for us to see
the concrete bridge and migrating island.
From morning to dawn
the dense humidity would not relent,
blurring the horizon and the coast.
After the pummeling of hurricanes
over geological history,
the tides and currents
still deposited the white pure quartz.
The wind broke the fog
to rape our eyes with abrasive
and pile the broken crystals
along ridges, corners and features.
The pixels reported
of a white storm
able to stop mechanical man,
destroying our precision schedules
until melting into life.
Colorless glowing satin draped itself
over flesh now promised.
Despite the cover,
white is not an effective
as it contrasts all colors
and flows past the smooth curves
-Robert L. Jackson III