Something is passed
down to us.
A deep and secret
longing to find
meaning in existence
and our place in it.


When she wrote her name

it was as if the world sang.

Of course, that was my adolescent
boyman hormones
telling me that
everything she did was music.

I met her again
in a store on Dorado Street.

Her hair has gone mostly
gray and her hands
show the years but her eyes
still smile when she speaks

and the corners of
her mouth turn up a little
when she remembers
that I loved her.


Leaping free from the side
of an old Chevrolet
pick up truck
I planted my feet in
the dark soil.

She cast a glance
and jumped
unafraid and unrestrained
her dimples deepening
as she laughed.

The old man
our grandfather
climbed the metal stairs
and I knew that
this day would remain.

We ran behind him
watching his hands as they
drew the oil soaked
metal measuring tape
from the tank.

With a stub of a pencil he
copied the numbers into
a small paper pad
and placed it back into
the pocket of his Big Smiths.

Descending again
we ran ahead and leapt
feet first
from the fifth tread
crossing moist air

to land light as children
run laughing and fly
into the back of that old truck
as the old man
             closed the door.