In Andalusia

Apple buds blossom

in a cozy kitchen

outside frost rimes the loam 

small fires are wisest

good wood from a lemon tree

scented like her hands

ate soup with lemon

spoons   half rinds impaled on twigs

tastes so bittersweet 

damp eucalyptus

rain slanting toward the sea

feeding the stray dog

fragrance unveils time

glances back rekindle fire

ashes without smoke

foot prints indistinct

she walked through that lemon grove

loam sprang back beneath

warmer winds stirring

passing swans seventeen beats

high clouds pass quickly

In Lanjaron

In Lanjaron    a widow's honey shop

just as Max from Loubressac described

French peasant's fires

three sticks   

            feeding a frugal mound of ash

not Saxon style   

                    but in the style of the Lot

careful smolders   

stone chilled air   

wiping snot

modern Mason jars for honey

seemed out of place

where she sat 

conversing with portraits on the wall

father and son

           beneath whose portraits we posed

while she incanted Spanish prayers

to those she said    

                 were watching from above

atop the stairs to Heaven 

where they beckoned her to come

leave her honey from the vega   

                                    our stares 

of disbelief

then she took our money

Botine, Madrid, May 1st, 1985

Ernesto, when you were here

it was simple wooden tables

seating on long benches

roast suckling pig, wild strawberries

Today, your 14 cousins from Phoenix

you know, the ones for whom the bells tolls

especially today, have spilt wine on the table cloth

red wine like a bloodstain on a white shirt

Richard M Russell © Dick Russell

                 February 2024