Of native words my tongue in English speaks, though in secret I long to write Spain
I long to sail with caballitos de mar
To admire Mediterranean blue
To sink into tides where beaches meet Asturias; there I long to climb her rugged coastline and drink her sultry air
Architecture old as bristle coned pines of Methuselah enshrine her vestiges
I long to touch bristle coned pines and see what they have seen
Alas, I long to walk the cobbled roads of Spain
Writing Spain as I marvel at Spanish mountains clinging to Spanish beaches with snowy sand, crowned by a Spanish turquoise sea(la mar de Spain the seamen call her)
I long to venture further still, from her beautiful seas to each of her shining vistas
I would admire
I could sing Spain with Berganza on Bellido’s strings of Zarzuelas
I could dream of living within the dreams of "The Tenth Muse”
To live within her golden lines, writing Spain
Painting rose gardens the color of ginger sunrises glowing afire beneath a Spanish dawning sun
Writing Spain
Thus drawing from my heart and into others' hearts
Filling bells, chiming whimsies of my soul struck
Sharing what I gaze upon, in memorable wonder, with words
Writing Spain