On gray days
we write poems
of Gaucín’s
reflecting blue sky,
pink roof tiles,
houses cascading
down the marble
like a cubist

on one house
is a locked door
the size of a small
coffin lid,
stained red,
scarified from age,
weather and,
on the inside,
the scratching
of a ghost child,
an angelito,
for the Río Genal,
for the valley below,
blooming with
cape daisies,
and margarite,
for the lavender
Mediterranean Sea,
the great shark fin
of Gibraltar and
the parched hills
of Morocco.


On the 24th day of NaPoWriMo I remembered a door in Gaucín, one of the pueblos blancos, the white villages of Andalucía where R and I were sketching one morning. There was no knob or handle on the outside, just a rusted lock and the door was so small that only a child could have climbed through. The view below was exquisite!


8 thoughts on “Door

    • Oh, Jennifer, thank you so much. I’m so happy to have taken on this challenge, though my lobus poeticus is definitely a bit fried. Still, I’m learning so much about possibilities. I appreciate your dropping by.


  1. I like the reverent tone–the mystical feel–the sense of wonder–the metaphorical journey within, or towards another place, how it encourages us to open our own murky doors, find the aesthetic in each–and go in, go in, go in. As always, your language surmounts all barriers.


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