LET'S

let’s surmise love’s best flavor hasn’t been tasted,
that Pyrenees’ peaks are snow covered beauties,
and when she fell soft as Spring rain
back into this green fragrant meadow,
it’s proof accidents on purpose
somehow do happen.

Basque hermits on hillsides in evening do chant
songs written in hot blood of unknown grandfathers,
they look onto wide rivers swollen with surprise,
as smoke curls like sky writing telling them stories,
pierces old grammars beyond far mountain tops,
discerning the message written above,
slowly the men and fat sheep begin breaking camp.

the volcans of Mexico repeat my last name,
threaten physical death, may drive me insane,
yet their clarion call seduced me again
no matter what else, I must break all my chains.

is a returning lover a dormant eruption
of dangerously great unburied yearning,
clenched heat hidden
deep under pressure,
and shall I watch for first signs
of earth’s voice waking
and pray that her crater
quiescently holds
as I gaze here strong
and direct
to learn and master
these red flaming origins of fire?

the men of Spain teach me in silence--
a guitar speaks softly like melt water flowing,
their tales of waiting and sweetness of music
within long night’s immense starry fold,
recall that not only volcanoes
awaken the soul and true self
from sleep’s darkened
encapsulating stupor.


Humble words of earth’s drift
and skylight’s quiet
teach and remind so very well
of no need for more angst,
earth-shattering
adrenaline hours,
when above us so high
in fields of silence,
free of all raging
and stark mountain building,
peace and contentment
are writ ours’ to know now,
feel all fully
and open-armed,
behold,
wow!