The palm trees are not native, the Uber driver says --

to me, they look like they have always been here

persimmons and pomelos hang heavy over hedges

promising gardens behind green screens.

The land where the citrons blossom

maybe it is here

light and shadow on scrubbed tiles

cypresses remind me that balance can be found

even on shaky grounds of tar and oil.

Waves embrace me, hills invite me to ascend

almost haphazardly.

When I first came here I came because of death --

I could not un-see magnolias beyond black mirrors

skies behind billowing curtains.

I dreamed of violet and pink flowers

caressing my cheeks and copper hair

of plantain trees whispering, touch me

of one day returning for the sake of life.