By Jo Anzalone
How long he sat his horse
upon the quiet slope
where his cypress speared the Spanish sky
he never quite recalled.
All he knew
was that his son was nearly five
and watched him, sad-eyed,
from among the distant wheat
And that his wife's hair,
blowing wreath-like round her face,
framed full lips that his already
yearned to turn again and kiss.
He stared at them, unblinking,
to impress the sight
upon his inner eye, and fix it firmly there
to view again among the German pines.
"Home...," he sighed,
and closed his eyes,
making sure the vision still remained,
a tight expansion filling up his throat.
Arm lifted,
he spread his fingers wide
in gesture both salute and gathering,
then pressed it to his heart.
He saw she knew,
knew what he had done,
knew he was taking all of it he could
contained within the chambers of his soul.
He turned his horse,
not looking back again...
riding quickly down the greening slope,
and left his presence etched against the Spanish sky.
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