Clear day out on this high noon of Tuesday-March. Last night's fog made its way to the morning streets. I remember it waited there, sitting heavy and supernatural on swollen concrete and twitching grass. I remember hearing your footsteps in song, carried back to me by the misty white. Do you remember the moments we created for each other here? Moving through empty street—contemplating laughter and joy? I remember carrying you through the night air, escorting your holy skin and feral spirit, holding you captive in my arms and wheels of black metal. Do you remember once sitting with the stars? Pushing our feelings in circles, sharing our thoughts in rhyme? I remember your groovy persona. And I remember how you sweetened nature's void with your cooling word.
Ossicburgh, 11th Mar 2008
- Γαλενω Γαλισια
- My true home is here in Simancas where Pyrenees joy bursts into air like wind carries Spain's oceanic light. In this place the moon wolf cries at nightfall in a voice of hunger. The sky moves like weeping blankets of folding white snow. Rain falls in silver thread and feeds our valley of farmland and silent homes with smile. Here is where the conquistador spirit is born, set free from the edge of shore, and like a woman's sunlit beauty, is captured and carried away by the warm ebb and flow of fragrant word.