Paradise

January finally drags into February and one fumbles with
numb fingers at the ordinary knots and hooks of life. People
are irritable, difficult. Some days you want to stay in bed
with the covers over your head and dream of paradise. A
place where the warm sea washes the white sand. There
are a few palm trees on the higher ground, many brightly
colored fish in the lagoon, waves breaking on the reef
farther out. No one in sight. Occasionally an incredibly
large, split-second shark darkens the clear water. Sea birds
ride the wind currents, albatross, kittiwake...and pass
on. Day after day, sea wind and perfect sky...You make a
big heap of driftwood on the beach.

- Louis Jenkins

Last night I walked through Hoboken in the dark, and it was windy, and the air was so cold my bones and face felt shattered. I tucked into a coffee shop and got a hot chocolate, which helped for approximately one minute before it the heat leached out of it. Then I sat on trains for awhile, all of them taking too long, drowsy with warmth. I watched people and thought about cold, about what a tropical sun feels like, about the lives of the other people in my train car, about poetry.

Could there be a better way to spend a day than making a big heap of driftwood on a beach? Quietly, alone, and under a perfect sky?