Lucia, Your Voice


From fluent vineyard rolling,
rivers of syllables strumming the air,
I come with you to the garden
where rhubarb shoots its rosy spoke.
We pull and gather,
a shawl of sun on our backs.
Afterwards, the silence is different.
Your voice fills in the cracks
between moment and moment,
sealing them. In the valley
a man is building a house.
Between each block
he spreads the smooth mortar.
People will live here,
sleep here,
safe from the rain.