The days linger on,
like a rain that hangs
over the island’s
Streams trace the streets,
chase debris out to sea.
Perceive the occasional
floating flower petal,
fleeing like an insignificant detail,
a star amongst the gnarled traffic
of tree limbs and vine,
it becomes more profound in its travel.
Lapsing into symbolism
that will unravel
the mystery of unconscious scenes
just below the surface,
subterranean streams running parallel
to the lingering routines.
Suddenly the universe
and its lightning-infused
electricity of happenstance
conjures a crystallized moment,
a recognition of perfection,
an art without the need of further correction,
a stage we can gracefully leave
what we preconceive
behind the mask of striving.
Reviving the beat, we dance in unison.
Poised for the next change in rhythm,
content to let the world of thought
fall away into its own revision.
Above the abyss of the audience,
we’re positioned on the cusp of decision.
Do we walk the fine line
or give in to expectation?
Asking not for support but momentum,
I come to this crossroads limping.
Trusting I’ll find my feet again,
a retreat into dreams again,
a long and winding highway
that untangles the reeds
of someone’s needs,
enclosed in glittering ports,
those soft resorts
that line the shore
of your creative wasteland.
Now that it is light it is time to leave.
The colored roofs, the twisted routes.
There’s another bus to catch,
of multi-colored pastels to undress.
On some ancient Calle
framed by cacti,
a whole stretch of valley lays before me.
You can hear the distant horns
in courtyards, mariachi.
Do not disturb the stray
asleep in the doorway.
Leaning against a wall,
I pull a brim hat over my eyes.
No need to disguise
how good it feels to be alive
under foreign skies again.
To reach for the sun
that blazed through what was barren.
To feel the rain
that glazed a green hue to the hilltops
that fill you with the desire
to play chase with the clouds
above the chapels,
stepping from one to the next,
until finally you become a tiny speck
on the horizon.