For the winter weary:

As you look out past the shady trees,
the palms with, maybe, too much leaf,
you see the bright, hot sand and surf,
the sunlit air laid off from clouds.
You touch the warm, dark bark of limb
and feel the warm, salt swells of sand,
like warm tar or sheets or dry, hot breeze.
You look and think light,
half entranced,
of somewhere in the world,
an alarm clock staring dimly at an empty bed
low lit and left in the corner on the table.
With concern, it beeps the time politely,
wondering where on earth from this half-lit room
you have gone.

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