The I Land

It's hard not to think of the sea
when you live on an island
with the coast always running
its edges alongside you.
Your ear holds the rush of surf
even without a shell pressed to it.

I wonder if children born in the desert
have the fizz of granules ever present,
like the burr of a radio tuning in,
the slide of dunes formed
and reformed in the wind.

An island dwells amidst the constant pull
and surge of water, the weary, wearing
grate and polish of fluid movement.
It is stillness at the heart of agitation,
where seeds are sown
and living things take root.