morning of Spain
fascicle - a small or slender bundle (as of pine needles or nerve fibers)
Morning light glances
and splashes all the
new shoots of the trees
bearing buds filled with honey
for the bees. Rustling
like someone turning
the blankets in bed,
blowing sleep out of their
wish-boned joints.
Umbrella Pines and their
sticky needles dropping
to the forest floor, taking
dominion of everything
under them. Mourning doves
and finches bounce from
branch to branch.
All so familial the way they
and we nurse each other.
Today we drive to Spain.
The wild and voluptuous country
once rich with the treasures of savage
conquest, now broke after the
gluttonous spending of Mexican gold.
A raw place, brimming with history, all
settled in the wise, sleeping Pyrenees.
Names call like lace. Vowels skip
over consonants like stones on top
of a still pond. What will their fields
be like? What color yellow will be there?
Crushed saffron, melted yellow crayon,
green leaf turning fall over yellow?
We will see, we will see after the
morning passes and we are in Spain.