With sudden glimpses
into a mist that is memory,
there’s a prose that is barely visible,
like an innuendo,
suggestive of something grounded.
Lost thoughts preoccupied and entangled
in narrow alleys turned to mud,
lines become stories
sprouting from rooster seed,
free to roam without fences
lodged for awhile in the present,
though it could be long ago
that progress passed you. Tiny farms forgotten and absent of windows,
full of holes for the banished souls
living without Soles.
Truth be told, life is hard.
The daily routine only eclipsed
by the beauty of perseverance.
Strong are bond and family,
the sense of village, identity.
Things that are forgotten
when words do not move me
to appreciate the details of my luxury.
Given everything but a sustained purpose.
Happy to travel to find glimpses.
Purpose, a strange concept
to those who have never journeyed
beyond their fields and flimsy walls
but share what they have
as if their kindness
is all of the world
they need to be aware of.
Moving along the sodden passageways
through the half-light.
Andean rain make the cobbles wet,
everything smells of earth and mule shit.
With every step your boots round up echoes,
like the tiny clamor of Quechua pots,
earthen ovens smoking behind Inca walls.
He'll remember the faces under the brim of their hats,
the loss that lives in wrinkle lines,
in the doorways of suppertime,
dirty-faced kids clutch woven skirts.
Perhaps they mutter to each other in a strange tongue
“Where is he going?"
Slouching towards darkness and ruin.
Under the graves in the cliff,
past the crossroads to drift through the country night,
along the swollen shoulders of the river,
brown with rain run-off and blood memory,
you write down some sense of the past.
How passing through here could stir up
what had long ago settled.
He was out there a while
under the twilight eucalyptus,
listening to the children's singing
die into the distance of hills and pastureland,
where the animals sleep where they stand,
with a shadow that crawls up from under their feet
when the tiny lights of the village
vacate the square
but will not extinguish the insistent glare,
the collaboration that a restless mind
and inspiration seem to share.