Just This

There’s music, maybe a marimba
so far off I don’t hear it,
but taste it on the wind
the way you taste land
before you see it
after a long passage,
the way birds appear.

There’s a door ajar, and
I don’t know what got out or in,
the presence of something,
the absence, could be a year.
You are here, the long island of you
golden on the rumpled sea,
the sunrise cloud of your hair,
faint aroma of spice and love,
the prospect of tomorrow and tomorrow
and perhaps an easy sail
toward the far-off music.