Ghazal of Spanish Skies

In Northern Spain where pilgrims walk, mountains burn the sky.

The lost questions wanderers ask do not concern the sky.

In Northern Spain, windmills sweep the burning blue dome.

Below we watch, dizzying ourselves as they turn the sky.

Our rental car, your freckled hand, one finger steering a road

so rutted I lower the map and look to learn the sky.

At the Hotel Suiza, the concierge speaks perfect English,

with one hand he opens blue curtains to a garden of ferns, the sky.

In San Juan de Orbigo, beside the crumbling earthen altar,

a red-haired angel wrings her hands, weeps to return to the sky.

© Copyright, 2014, Anne Colwell.
All rights reserved.