Estero Beach

The voice of the palm fronds
draws its breath from the surf,
the measured exhalations
of waves on Estero Beach,
the cathedral of coconuts
on its bank, cantatas
scored with serranos and limes.
Julio translates the voice
with the nib of a pen
from a chair in a cantina,
the loops of his l’s and t’s
the stems of olives and figs,
his lyric Tequila
in a shot glass.
Eucalyptus and jacaranda
whisper the rolled r’s
of the tide in his ears,
the generations,
the prayer of the surf
hymned by paisanos.
Julio pauses to listen to the voice,
and notes in the layered
rosary of leaves
that compose the pastorals
of the evening
the ascending breeze in the cantina,
the lines on his page,
the tortilla o’s of the moon.