Hymn to Albaro


The verdant country side
rambles up the mountain pedestal.
I feel the tingle of skin
in light wind whispers,
hear each instrument in the symphony
of birds gathered
together.

In this stillness
A shovel breaks earth.
I hear the crunch
And scrape of rocks.

The rain comes,
Tropical hills
and mountains green.
It is a good season for planting
mango, limon, and coconut.
He will be using a cane
When the palm has grown tall
And his childrens
children
sing in the tamed garden
we only imagine,
wrapped around the walls
that will grow out of the ditches
the amigos dig together today.

In this place
things are as they seem,
the future is certain,
the air clear,
and we have time to wait
playing dominoes
while the coals meander
their way to a fire.

Butterflies kiss the grass.
These children
do as their parents did,
certain of their place.
One digs,
one pours water over the fire.
In this place there is time
for the earth,
for each other,
the past and future.

The promise
they have is
three fence posts wide
and five deep.
it is freedom, wealth, security.

Together we breathe
a foundation
for the infant
waiting in Lupitas belly.

One uses a pick,
the other a shovel,
the cricket whirs in the grass.
Digging is hard work
In the insistent sun.


Christine McAuliffe