Mangoes

Running barefoot down
narrow paths sodden by
a deafening downpour
through mangroves and palms

in this land where
no corn grows, and
sugar cane rows blind the view
from un-tilled slopes of
low-slung emerald hills.

I don't recognize the rain,
it smells of volcanic ash
and sea salt burning

as I search for the stain
hopelessly trodden,
changing its course.

If only I could find a tree
that bears familiar fruit,
and see colors or hear sounds
that point me to you,

but I'm a stranger.
This path wends to the shore
where the island comes full circle,

offering dead things in the sand
and no escape
because you're not here.

I return to the fields
as rain fades green to grey
where no one else goes,

and I pray the way
back to you will be
in an armful of mangoes.