Portugal

I feel your age and walk

softly across your cobblestone

I climb your steep hills

to arrive at secret doorways

I wear a skeleton key to enter

ascend narrow stairwells

I gaze out toward your open seas

from your stone towers

I am awakened by the bells

of your ancient hallowed cathedrals

I listen to the clackety clak of your railways

passing through fields and orange groves

I see the clothes of your citizens

drying in the calm breeze

I read the graffiti

on every abandoned wall and building

I intake the freesia in your fragrant air

I sip the wine you leave for me

next to baskets of ripe fruit

I lean in to you to catch

some small fragment in your language

I am breathless

refreshed, enraptured

I absorb your grace

I am totally here

Minha bonita

Portugal.

Pencil Notes