Air Castles: Reforesting Masaya

The crater pockmark'd nature;    
“An ancient meteor”, they said.    
We have our doubts,    
but believe nonetheless    
in collisive beginnings,    
in the bangs and fireworks    
of cosmic deliverance.    
   
We laugh over a late lunch:    
bread, cheese, and olives    
with a bottle of Mombacho    
because we're not reforesting
or harvesting the fruit of grape;  
we're eye-patched pirates    
burying a treasured refuge    
of shade and oxygen    
where X marks the map.    
Humidity wipes the crumbs    
off our lips like paper mâché,    
throws them as kindling    
into the full-bellied daze
of our afternoon siesta.      
   
Wild horses stampede    
the valley, their hooves    
impressing the damp clay;    
the cotton quilt vibrates,    
folding sleep between us.      
The smell of compressed    
grass rises like a sulfur bank    
of steamed water and air    
leaving our skin flushed    
and conventions bare.    
~