Galician Melody Reborn

Galician Melody Reborn              

When the Beowulf and Canterbury Tales
were being written Acoma was built
atop a 400-foot mesa.
But when we serenaded lovers young and old,
leaving moccasin prints on the dust of ages past,
we had already played our duet for countless lifetimes.
My wife was an Indian Gwynevere              
and I her Lancelot.              
My matriarchal lover kept me              
too busy illustrating the megaliths              
with petroglyphs to even practice archery              
much less think about war.              
We sat by the mission church at sunset              
while she harmonized with my melody              
played on a reed-flute in a duet              
whose timbre was as haunting              
as canyon wrens at sundown.                
             
Impressions of the family fern  
whose fronds are our past lives  
seen through the lens of cities both ancient and modern.  
On this Pueblo night I remembered    
that Hers was that voice which took me down              
the Camino de Santiago of Galicia              
on our pilgrimage where romance              
was the language of love              
when the songs for a friend              
were her sound potion that kept me spellbound              
by mystic vibrations             
while I breathed crimson laced clouds    
of music from the flute.    
She sang whispered yearnings like a lover    
deep in mystic fervor.    
Her jade inflection ignited    
into a fiery necklace of a song.    
Her voice was a fragrant, come hither.    
Galician lady of the night,    
she poured burgundy love lilt    
into my thirsty heart.