The roads in August are clogged with tourists,
but I arrived in September.
As thyme grew beside goat paths, grape vines
swung heavy with fruit.
Here, children pick olives after siesta,
in dark, curly hair and blue jeans.
Accents recalling to mind the language
of ancient philosophers and dead gods.
I ate a peach in October, before climbing
into the Aegean where I floated for hours,
hiked alone to the temple of Delion, past
roosters and donkeys, ships leaving the harbor.
In November, rain chased itself over the island
and locals asked why I lingered.
Because yesterday, I saw storm clouds above the city
break, releasing threads of light against arid hills.
Waves crashed rock and froth into beach, where
my inner child was reborn laughing. Until tomorrow,
I have nowhere else to go.
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