I must have been about 8 years old and was very ill in bed. To make things a bit better, my grandmother would come and put fruits that she just bought at the wharves in town. She would put them on the windowsill right next to the bed. I used to lie there and smell the fruit and look at the scanty curtain flapping in the wind - all the while - endlessly falling into and popping out of sleep..
Some years ago, the memory popped back and I wrote "My Island" which was originally named "Breezes". When I felt really sick, I would call on "Good-ole-MOM" Something came over me and I wrote this short poem in 2001. A bit personal but I wanted to share it.
Windowsill breezes pass over fruits
Those you placed on the windowsill
Laden in that aroma
The winds come to visit
The only hint of their entrance
Being the dancing curtain
We sit in dark recesses holding hands
Speaking nothingness and laughing
While windowsill breezes laden in perfume
Mix into our air