And then the car stops beside the freeway,
alongside a meadow of red blinding tulips, and we
step out and wave goodbye to our new friends,
and then hold out our pretty young thumbs, the nails
like clear unpolished stones pointing to the road ahead,
when another car pulls to the side and we run heavily
with our mounts to meet it, smiling at the drivers, our new friends,
with grateful exuberance.
Because everything stirs, piques, us,
and so deeply. Everywhere we point and gasp.
So this is England!
So this is Scotland!
So this is Italy!
We lick the rain drops from our noses, noting
a sweet foreign taste, a marvelous scent.
So this is Greek rain!
So this is Swiss snow, so light, so white!
So this is Turkish milk, German bread,
French cows, Dutch wasps.
We bow at all the sacred places,
remove our caps, our shoes, touch the crosses
and swords.
So these are their skulls!
We walk the catacombs, gaze long into their memory,
and at the graves, sometimes, we have no words, but always,
always we are certain untold numbers of translucent
beings walk with us, a delegation sent, the past looking at us,
judging us. We welcome it.
We long for its approval.
