The salty olive lingers on my tongue –
should I refrain from taking another?
My mind wanders to places so far flung
from the routines that blanche the days and smother

The crunch of snow, the scarf that was just hung
on the coat rack, as my boots wet the floor
I step on an ornament badly strung –
it fell off the tree of life and bad décor.

If toddlers toddle, where is my toddy?
Hot water, with rum or calva and cloves
in right proportion, warms your whole body
from nose to toes, our grottoes and olive groves:

A geography of life to rifle through,
a finger-licking brine of salted dew.