The Tamarind Tree

If you need me, I'll be in the tamarind tree. It's romantic to write to White Night, in purple pen, from the limb of the Terrace King on a Thursday. And as fruitful to muse atop as to harvest for nectar, he gives in more ways than Arabic can count. From forelimb, the terracotta sings softer than I know it to be. Reality will strike the balls of both feet when this pillow has ceased to make nature feel natural. For trees seldom align with the right-angle-loving sapiens sort.

I think I'll get down now. But tomorrow, if you need me, I'll be in the tamarind tree.

I'm Adanac. I wrote this piece while sitting in a tamarind tree in St. Lucia. Sometimes I return to it when I want to be transported to that same home on the hillside, staring up at the Piton peaks of Soufrière. It was a good tree.