Saturday, November 26, 2011

The Wind with a Hill Approaches

Mornings on bicycles we pedal past a fox
crossing the road, another rushing the vineyard,
then us, watching for nose & ears in the far grass.

Who will make stilts for the boy without a bicycle?

Such wind drives every grape to the end of its stem,
tugs water from the hose, spins the patio fans.

Who will name October’s filly? Pequeña, he says.
Lechita, I say – Little Milk – to make us remember.

A smile, launched by his Buen dia, streams down her face.

One child does standup, a second averts his gaze,
the third, still too young to know Odysseus
sways & rhymes, motions a wine-dark sea.

Lechita, aka Little Milk

1 comment:

  1. wonderful photo, yours? I don't understand some things in the poem, but like what I do.

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