Navel oranges ripen on branches near the steps 
to a porch. He recalls zigzagging along a path 

marked by white stones through a lava flow 
to a beach where violet morning glories flared.

Up the coast he once peered into the water 
but could not discern the underwater shrine 

frequented by black-tipped reef sharks.
He tries to delineate the sheen of rolling waves, 

chromatics to this hour when light pales 
the unfolded paper shades to the south-

facing French doors. Last Wednesday they rolled 
architectural plans, along with sun-bleached 

red paper inscribed with gold characters, 
and torched them in the hearth. As they remodel,

they ponder how a floor of repeating strips 
of bolted oak and cement can be replicated; 

but, at his fingertips, he finds nothing 
can be replicated: neither the hair in her hairbrush 

nor the hole in his sock, neither the hue 
of sunrise nor waves of opalescent spring sleet.