Reminded of a million scenes
Yet marinating in new novelty

Pastel houses of a Bermudan paradise
Painted darker, and brighter

Limeade colored hillsides
Of a Honduran forest

Flashback to piling out of the bus
At the bottom of the steep hill
Streams beneath my sandalled toes
We pushed

Dirt roads to diners
Like my rural Mexican heartbeat
Searching for the boys on the trampoline

Northern mountain drives
With palms instead of pines

Fronds don’t fall
In a wicked straight line
These natives sprout out wherever they choose

A new language
In familiar territory
You mean to tell me
I’m not in route to the mountain cabin
Of tears in the laundry room
And laughter on the rickety fence?

Expecting to turn the corner
To where we parked off the road
Hidden until curfew

Red earth holds my attention
You’re not something I’ve yet to see
Lime green sprouts
a complimentary helpmeet

They say these forests
Have bandits
How could the trees hold such danger
To me
They only hold stolen breaths