By Erin Christine
Running through the olive groves,
with the wild flowers and breeze,
has got to be
one of my favorite things.
Hills and rows
and old dirt roads;
Sometimes a horse
or a herd of goats.
Orange blossoms line the path,
To roosters and a mule
to the mile long stretch of blooming,
Sunflowers opening full.
The Andalusian sun sets in the back;
unleashing it’s
beauty and another surprise
with every stride.
I’ve not been spoken to
with a voice like that before in my life;
with a tone of respect and encouragement
I’ve never heard.
To hear better I often turn off
right to run
with the hares and mice;
to make it to the top.
White, stucco houses
with red terra-cotta roofs
dot the valley and hillside;
they speak too.
Along with the olives and the almonds,
they speak their truth
because it is all they know.
They know nothing else
And never will.
