Evening walks,
Sun behind the mountain,
Striding up the hills
Two steps at a time,
I am a woman used to walking.

Descending
Taking cautious steps,
Bad ankle, slightly lame,
Waiting
For the mantle of night
To free
The outline
Of each flower petal,
Every tree.

By the light of the full moon,
Blue Plumbago,
Peeks through fuchsia bougainvillea,
Angel Trumpets creep along a fence.
I smell alluring honeysuckle,
But cannot find its secret place,
Lemon trees filled with hanging fruit,
Green figs hidden in the branches,
Roses, always roses,
Vining roses with the trunks of trees.

I walk through quiet, unruly places
Past wildflowers
I cannot name,
Weeds,
The completeness
Of a harmony
Of a careless order,
Disarray.

Coming to the final hill,
Craggy, winding path,
A garden, lush and rampant,
Silver in the moon shade.
Jacaranda, Oleander,
Nasturtium blossoms
Big as saucers.
Scented geranium,
Blooming purple
Trailing onto the dusty road.

Sometimes I wonder
What will become of me.

Will I have a Spanish garden
To finish out my days?

Pick the figs
And eat them?

Press wildflowers
In the pages of a book?