Andalusia: a view from the top of Ronda

age spots flicker and bloom
along youthful perspective
which strains, listening
to profound undulation
in Death's flamenco song

it drenches
olive branches, carves
tiny currents in my skin,
those foreshadowed tingles
glisten
where wrinkles will one day
reach
homeward, and pull
longingly
toward lush, unfolding soils
which offer up newborn flowers
to ancient stone

Death is faint here.

Wavering
It pours and sweeps
bursting from sage browns
and romantic silence
which settles a lover's hand
around my yearning pen-tip