Shell

There it is: the house that bears your name
worn, weathered, watching
a 60-year-old testament to the world.
And I try to take it all in

the same sweet aroma
of plumeria and white ginger
greeting my nose as it once did yours
rising from the flower beds Marj planted

the same touch of rain
that patters on the palm tree leaves
and darkens the orange earth runway
where your plane once stood

the same grand mountains
standing guard over this outpost
to make sure that Shell
is never swallowed by the jungle

the same delicious coconut milk
sold by the ladies on the corner
in their bright pleated skirts
smiling with their toothy grins

the same chorus of jungle crickets
who soothe the city to sleep at night
and sing with the parrots, only
occasionally to be interrupted by Piper engines

the same God
who still works all things out for good
even the death a precious Saint
and garners glory for himself from all over the earth