Saturday, January 14, 2012


caffe tazza, morning light
listening to talk of gypsies
on the road.
birdsong in the quiet

watching green, wistful boys
their silent posture

remembering lotus opening in a dream,
me, open to the wind
in the willow and fruit trees.
the acequia dry.

drinking cheap white wine
with salsa & chips,
silly, me, imagining your footfall
on the steps
to find me posed, curled
on the black bedspread
in the ganado red room.


  1. You have been astonishingly busy. Funny how we can get inspired by something and get in a good creating groove. Paper, for good and bad, I love paper, the feel, the smell of inks and paints and (most) glues. I want to go and read what inspired you about not reading the newspaper (I more or less gave that up so long ago I can't even remember when). MY creosote balm is supposed to smell like bush. I have never been to the desert and will say it is an unusual smell.

  2. such memories...tazza were anything goes and comes

    dry acequia, happiness with cheap wine.
    and whoa.....
    that last image in the red room, as our minds can often call forth to make our imaginings come true.
    hearing the sound of gravel beneath a hiking boot?


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