(Winter Park, Florida)

The fountain that had only dripped 

with algae-tinted water 

when he first bought the ramshackle place, 

now overflowed with the cool torrent 

of afternoon thunderstorms.  

He, like the tiles he had laid 

around the fountain so many years ago, 

had lost that shiny, superficial glow; 

they had evolved together 

through a biological weathering 

into something authentic, 

like a rock garden 

untouched by human hands.

His church was the falling apart 

old Florida courtyard, and his altar, 

the circular rim of the worn tile fountain 

where various seedlings were planted 

in clear gelato and sorbet containers. 

There were no other human parishioners, 

yet he found fellowship 

with the many lizards 

that congregated there 

to bask in the sun.

Often, he contemplated 

the tiny red hearts of the lizards 

that seemed to be beating in frenzy 

out of the smooth, white film of their chests; 

though the rest of their form, 

especially their eyes, 

were fixed in meditative gaze. 

Over time, by watching the lizards, 

and the vibrant green plants 

that thrived within this sticky environment, 

he had learned to adapt 

and to cultivate into someone else, 

not a native, but a devotee of the place: 

someone who knew how to release passion 

by being motionless 

and breathing through the skin.