West Bay

A white bird soars above us on
the eve of mother's birthday.
There is no logic, or pattern
in the stream of his flight;
yet he remains a work of art
graceful and poised before us.

Later, in the afternoon, we take
a stroll along the opaque covered
beach. Sharing conversation is
the order of the day.

At night, before we turn to sleep
You remind me of the white bird --
"A form of beauty," is what you
said. How true this observation
is and was for you and me.

Next day, we rise to a Caribbean
sunshine then make love. Breakfast
is fine and our shopping provides
a jewel for mother whose voice is
joy in evening during our call.

The bird reappears soaring high
above the Holiday sky.

Our vacation now draws to a close.

Will we remember the bird? This
poem indicates the answer is yes.
Another memory of our time together
away from it all.