San cris tobAL

Sometimes I miss it so-

the sunbaked stones and woodfire air,

dizzying markets and dazzling churches,

steps and more steps up zig-zagging streets.

The anador,

the plaza,

all pulsing with life.

And those small, secret spaces between.

Happy hours, happy days,

the men at the arcade, morning, noon, night.

And our small, breezy house on the hill; the Chamula women and their burros clattering past every dawn.

With the lilies out back,

our handsome, shy roomie,

Guadalupe to the south, gleaming and white.

And our huge chiminea, lit up every night.

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