Smoke in the air–

not pine or ash or some North American tree

a tropical smoke smokier than smoke–

permeates my skin, my hair, my soul

Hard red dirt

turns everything a shade of orange

but resists the probing roots of all but the hardiest

Trees looking like broken umbrellas

Baobabs sleekly reaching for the sky roots in the air

Banyans searching for the earth

Palms pound coconuts to the ground or give directions home

Mango trees straight out of every child’s tree drawing

Bright colors on dark skin

fingers floating across cloth

flowers better left in the ground than captured for a vase

Bats pinging

Djembes keep the rythm of the night

while fire crickets threaten sanity

and ceiling fans purring and whirring invite sleep

I know my own version of what you’re talking about

(This was my response—with some minor modifications— to this post at A Gypsy Mama today.  If you were ever looking for a new blog to read, go here.)

photo courtesy of longwayround/Luke and Kate Bosman