What the old know the young don’t believe
the wiles of youth are not lost on the wise:
as a busy farmer sees a fox
does not call his dog or get a gun
the old allow freedom, turn a blind eye
The young wonder is life always like this,
the elders say, not just, but nearly:
a grey cloud is unlike any other, a river
changes course, color, vanishes into sea
but cannot change its nature– this is
As waters flow and suns burn: youth is
a river of change, the elderly, the shore
of their ambition– it is not important
when near the Alameda in the Red Café
the clapping of hands is the sound
of water pushed by a river over rocks
hummingbird-winged-fingers on strings
tongues of desire lost and found
shout flamenco all afternoon, evening is
an echo of two thousand years
The pulse of duende in heartbeats
the feet of women in blue yellow red
swirling the frill of spectacular gowns,
the gates open night and day
no matter your age, tents fill with song
Workers and women tossing back sherry
Sipping sangria before the summer heat
for a week they dance into morning
dancing with death in hip pockets or purse
singing before the bull as they age
— My God they sway
they stomp on ten feet, dance for love
on hooves on paws, forgetting the wars
for now is spring and spring the only law.
