The day of The Dead.
The cemetery in Loule is on top of a hill, today
early spring the steep hillside is full of luscious
yellow flowers. Not like ripe lemons, more like
Swiss butter, from the rich milk of cows will bells
and horns; sturdy feet able to carry big, rose-pink
udders and be milked by smiling maidens with
strong arms creamy white as a Valkyrie’s bosom
What you didn’t see- all this life- when blinded
by the intensity of every sun lit flower came
from a rotting coffins, the few day in early spring
when the dead are let out, sway on a hillside and
soak up the sun.
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