First Whiffs

In the moonlight filtering through great swathes of tropical sky
We stood there in our cotton nightdresses
(terracotta tiles glistening beneath our feet
the smells of coffees, cream and expectant earth)
Toasting our bent glass flutes to the harbinger,
To the aching thunder's beat,
To the silk of the palm fronds,
and the crust of our skin
seared by the heat of a testing summer,
The forgetfulness of a trivial winter.