i.

On day one as the hydrofoil
approaches the Greek island, our tour guide
tells us it never rains on Poros.  

A black cloud hangs over us.
The azure sear beneath the hydrofoil
is calm, blue to the end of its depth.  

Before the hydrofoil leaves
with passengers from the island,
returning to Athens, the storm hits.  

Lightning strikes in rapid protest,
chases me from the hotel balcony.
Through glass, I watch torrents  

fall & run downhill
to pond near the front entrance
below.

                        ii.                                                      

The sun returns to Poros Island
the next morning,
but I have lost the afternoon
& the first night of my vacation.

Having no itinerary,
I explore the island from the dock                        
to the top of the hill                        
beside the hotel.                          

I carve my initials
on a tree, the tallest one                        
past Zorba’s Taverna
& mine are the only ones.  

The cliff, behind the tree,
drops from its edge
to the seashore where rocks
catch incoming waves.  

It is a process that has gone
undeterred, unlike romance,
for as long as cliff
& shoreline have existed.  

I hear a woman wailing.
She hovers over a grave
in the cemetery near me.
I move on in silence.