In spite of the frozen storm, I stood outside in all its heavenly glory to witness the horizon yonderside. Behind lofty hills of snowcapped houses, I could see secrets of many—the wide mesh of hidden thoughts whispered to skies by starry-eyed dreamers like myself—and it was then, staring through heavy cascades of white snow, that I was driven mad by my own clarity.
Ossicburgh, 4th 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.