The sunrise is always purple in Spain.
Slowly making it’s way across the virgin sky,
the sun is seen before it is felt.
Crisp mornings in the shade of the sloping hills of Toledo
were matched with warm kitchens, and warmer hearts.
In that perfect moment before you feel the warmth of the sun
where the amethyst sky clings to the faint light of
waning stars
and planets
that beg the question,
“what does it all mean?”
from many an early riser,
and merrymaker heading home to bed.
The shade of blue above the lavender color has no word in
Spanish other than cielo–heaven–its blue
fades into the great expanse, vacuum, and darkness of space above it.
That blue cannot last forever,
and we only catch it at dawn.
When the orange sun appears, the colors of the sky melt,
and if you look away you’ll miss it turn the heavens to a golden
orange that streaks across the earth below.
The chill that permeates the plaza’s shade evaporates
under the Spanish sun.
the sagacious bee 