Down the Old Inca Road (and two other Poems)
Down the Old Inca Road
The minute my hands
Touched the rocks
(of the Inca stone wall,
Upon the edge of the path)
Everything had changed:
The sun had come
Around and down
The Old Inca Road
(where I was now walking);
The air was warmer than before,
And I, I could smell the dirt;
Thereabouts, came sounds of nature
Steadily thundering into my
Eyes and soul…
The blue sky above me
And the Inca world beside me, and I, I
Walked down that cracked road
Along side its stonewall.
I had not been born when they had placed
The last stone to this wall—
When someone wedged in,
The tightly nit stones.
(The Old Wanka Bridge of San Jeronimo)
Let beauty form its own heart
‘tis a perspective for the best
for ones true image is never pictured
on ones face—but rather in his trying past.
When I looked upon this ancient Wanka Bridge
Calicanto-Vita, no shadows to flatter her stones
Only a reminiscence, of long past battles.
The White Winged Butterfly
She comes around this White Winged Butterfly—
All day long: floats or flies on and within my air,
In my garden, in this Peruvian city, unescorted:
She has now, going on eight-weeks, done so—
(as if I didn’t notice or know).
How did she find mine, amongst so many?
Perhaps she smelled the greenery? Trying to
get away from the car fumes.
Or perhaps she found the sunshine, after
spotting my roses.
Whatever, its been eight-weeks now, I hate to
see her go (she put on a good show).
#1609 (1/14/2007); Dedicated to my wife Rosa