Cuenca, Ecuador
a streak of sun wakes us
into wonder. we quietly breathe southern air
I go for a walk
stare
a bowl they call a platter
a cup they call a vase
it's not mine—yet
the white enclosed feel of the fog
3 pale blue domes of the New Cathedral
every morning a different delicate color
hooped roof tiles in shades of
pink, beige, copper, dusty, rust, khaki, brown
that somehow add up to red
earth tones, they say
but no earth I've ever seen
& small dark perfect people
boys wrapped with boys, girls with girls
a madre says no soda
& her little one snatches
her hand away
without a second joking reach
no tears, no complaint
only European-tinged women have gray hair
pajaros & clouds
an orange on a platter
I sit in a church not mine
in a country & religion not mine
Jesus in a tutu made of light
will Cuenca become mine?
through food, love or a photo that I belong to
it was neither a noise nor a movement
or it was both! a little earthquake
the clouds the sun my recognizing eyes
change them charge them
our wealth is in time to stroll
we outdo each other in being pleased
the delicious fruit chirimuya
agua de pitimas, drink of a thousand flowers
& it's 3 in the afternoon
or 4 in the afternoon
August 2019