A tropical storm in the Everglades,
alone on a boat, we are baptized
by immersion from the sky: a remission
of our sins. Into Buttonwood Canal
the boat carries its unlikely pilgrims.
With a sound no louder than the slip from
life to death, a crocodile breaks the water’s
skin then glides parallel, portside.
I am not afraid. I see her now,
this scale-haloed, smiling, guardian angel.
Look!
The leafy lethal Manchineel tree.
Should one errant raindrop slip over
a leaf and onto my skin it will burn like
acid, I am told, blind me, I am warned.
Rainwater pours down its waxy apples,
skins a breath of bright green in the brooding
afternoon. Tempting killer apples beg
consumption. All but irresistible
the thought of their burn. This must have been
how Eve felt. Look!
Along the shore, a clutch of
crocodile eggs, partially buried, save
the naïve, mottled, white tips. It is here
our angelic reptile leaves us. The smell
of alive grabs my face, arms, legs
and seeps into the puncture wounds left behind
by biting things as the plants thicken.
The density of the canal’s darkness
is most convincing just before opening
to Whitewater Bay. Look!
In the airy
expanse, rain’s light-reflected-refulgence
welcomes us home. Egrets fly from tree
to tree, the heavenly sentinels of this
celestial scene.
Holy. Holy. Holy,
is this place.
Holy. Holy. Holy,
is this day.
Here, a church. Mosquitoes
its priests. Here is God. I see without sight.
