Mexico (San Miguel de Allende)

Fresh from the slow hills of Iowa
milky with corn, I stand aghast
where sharp-toothed mountains tear at the sky,
the feathers of Montezuma shadow
the cactus, the thin trails, the lonely cross.
A pink stone church praises God
from a fold in the hills, but the dry light
prods my eye with burro and vulture
lest I look too long at the flowers’ radiance.

Blue grace pours from heaven
on proud heads and kind shoulders
risen from the stone altars
as a smile shines in the doorways
and love welcomes you in.