Saturday, March 17, 2012

a ~ greening

Three hundred years back they excursed,
from vassilage
from indentured-ness
from bowing

And aching

To rushing toward the Western wall of
green slopes and
hiding draughts of brooks
that infuse ante-spring
with life anew.

Dark eyes of Totero waited
in mountain pines
and saw the blue of eye
yet once-ancient
walk windward.

Both would know 
the narrows of
who swept
the land clean

Both would know
each other
Desperate for a reckoning
of place and

the hills-touch-Cahas hide those who
once bowed yet
and now unyielding
magic in green fields
at the dawn.

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