Return to Treasure Island

Glistening hot

     white flour

          baked

               with salt

                    and sea oats, stirred

                         by continuous breeze with

                              astonishingly

                                   turquoise water.

But there’s a rest place.

It’s been here all these years.

Why did we miss some?

     And what if we hadn’t?

“Nostalgia” comes from

     ancient words

          meaning

               “return home” and

                    “pain”.

I read a sign.

Those cheerful green parakeets –

          we called them parrots –

     with their short, high, squawking language,

     are transplants from South America,

But this

     became

          their home.

If I had never stopped

     coming down the Florida road –

Family migration for a regular filling

     of delight, excitement satisfied –

Would I feel

     the pain

          of returning to this

               piece of home?