“Sands are Mine”

I left in dark, buses north
to Dolores de Hidalgo, named
in part for pain the other for the
Mexican priest who told the Spanish
to get lost in 1821.

I rode the bus, stopped off at a poor village
with old white chapel, smelled
trash burning, saw smiling faces
the poverty evident.

In Dolores I snapped photos of the
balloons, the many colors, the
town so different from San Miguel
whose wealth appears here and there,
blessed by tourism, a curse for some?

I could not ignore the need, stopped
by and bought a soccer ball, played
soccer with some kids near a church,
my ball stolen at some point by a large
boy, him running off as I watched and
wondered from the great steps—

I woke up next morning at dawn, poetry
had arrived, line by line in Spanish
and in English. It was an answer to subtle
but heartfelt prayers, Poetry had arrived
on my shore, the sands were mine,

rhyming with time, this was what it
was to feel need, write it down
and shine

Advertisements