It's been some years now and up you pop,
riding the restaurant's babble and clatter,
weaving between colors of summer dresses,
permeating aromas to get to me.
Affable intruder, you emerge,
float, sail this swirl of faces
from the rivers of earth,
converging out of East and West,
the Americas and Africa.
Or do you bleed, breathe,
seep out from within,
to whisper of your liquid power,
my saturation in your unseen mist?
You've caught me with nothing to say,
so I listen to the feeling of you
and agree: it's all so brief.
There's hardly time to cherish it all:
the regret for loves lost,
the shame for the trusted betrayals,
and sorrow for sins against self.
Or chance to savor the fool-fired wisdom
that could settle for this
yet yearn for more.
One last word before you slip away
to hide again behind the years.
A word to complete the circle,
an old word, as old as the beginning,
a word about these chiles verdes,
this rice and beans, this earth
where we eat, make love and die:
"It is good. Just because it is, it is good."
August 10, 1993