Naked on Cashmere

There is an island I knowI shouldn’t even mention—it’s a fairy tale, you seewhere no one wears shoesand no one needs to—the houses are hobbit-likewith grass on the roofsand the food is fresh from a nearby farmevery morning the tea sits steepingon long wooden counterswith toast and jams from local berries—the crickets always crick hereand the birds call, the kindthat make you stop and say,“Now that is a beautiful song”—the sun is hotwithout a cloud in the skyand the beach runs out for a milein silky white sandso that when the tide flows back in the afternoonit heats up, warm as a bath,when it rainsyou build puzzles, and paint, and readand light fires that crackleand smell like cedar saunasand each night, rain or shine,you drink wineand listen to recordswhile you play games—and sometimesyou’ll lay in long grassand chase the stars around the skyheads close together with the ones you love—each day is the sameyou do what brings you peace—and the wildest part of it allis the island is realmy toes are in its sand. O