Sunstruck EB's evening trances, complete with chanting... bathtime outdoors, as hoses are unraveled and the dusk watering begins... daytime skies so blazingly clear and navy that stars really should show, and crystalline airplane trails that last for hours... floors that burn our feet at midday, and the patchwork bridges we make of towels and clothing to get across... soup with ice... the way the breeze picks up when the sun is setting, and rustles the fig trees' big lobed leaves... waking up early to find a gecko in the kitchen... around the old paved threshing circles, low walls of hand-stacked stones, stiffly embroidered with lichen... the initial shock of real palms, growing out of the real ground, not quite believably... coming around the corner to the swimming pool in the morning, first to arrive, arms full of sunhats, books, towels, toys, pulling the folded chair cushions out of the closet, half the patio still in shadow, and EB patting one of the chairs and shouting "This one will be mine today!"... sparrow infanticide and the way swallows end their statements with clicks, like punctuation... oleander, bougainvillea, and santolini...
Two weeks left, and we will miss Spain so much. Watching these rocky hills bloom and shrivel over the past two months, feeling the heat steadily intensify, has been gorgeous, and it will be wonderful too to have flashes of memory later, on very clear evenings or in southern places...
2 comments:
This is a poem that I will write
when I am fifty, not something
I am writing right now.
I will already have succeeded by then
in becoming as famous as an ant
And revered as much
as a disgruntled nonfilter.
Everyone I know
will be people I've forgotten,
and as for myself,
I'll be that which I've eaten.
The things that I do
will be that which I've done
In a dream or a poem
that's already been written
By me or someone I used to admire.
He that would dare interpret this
in the context of tense,
would be mistaken
By the fact that you can't
interpret the unwritten.
Dear Dis-Non:
It should be obvious now that I blog only in the hope that brilliant things like this will occasionally turn up. Or foreshadow themselves.
Eat smart,
your s.
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