Martha Landman

when the wet season, the cyclones
have passed, rainforest trees are lush
the frangipani leaves on the ground
brittle and brown as dust.

Come in the soft April moon,
when the white-bark trunks on the riverbank
glow reddish against the afternoon sky.

Come when the night wind howls off-key
drives the humidity to the horizon’s edge
when the ocean starts cooling down
half-heartedly.

When you come to me as the rose robin in April
the days will be shorter. We’ll have time to read.
We’ll harvest and eat berries off the windowsill