Refuge

by Richard Tillinghast

A little house above the tsunami line,
plumbed, wired, and swept.
Tatami mats on the floor.

Trade winds riffling the palm fronds.
A place to heal. And the knowledge
there is work to be done.

Doves’ throaty pronouncements, saffron flashes
of finches, and the rice birds
that hang upside–down on stalks and peck at seeds.

Starbucks, or a train compartment,
or a room at the airport hotel
outside Mexico City. It’s all very well.

But this is better. You’ve brewed me a tonic.
You’ve painted the door red and the walls green.
The orchids are in bloom.

You gave me a compass, and here it is
on my table,
pointing north.