Slow Hours

[nibbed]

I melted like butter when I read this.
I love me a good gypsy poem.
Gypsy poems are encouraging and beautiful.



Slow Hours


Odor of cedar billows down from the dusky needles    -Although the waft was vivid, this first line made me reread it several times,
and mixes with the scent of uncut grass.                        it caused my reader's voice to be tongue-tied, or stammer. Cedar is not an
I’ve worked hard in the sun.                                           odor to me, but more an impressionable scent.
But it is cool in the shade.
Who could resist sleep here?


So I fade into dreams,
dreams of nights on the sleepless coast,
in Málaga, where I first met you.                                  A good place for gypsies.
In Málaga, city of orange trees and starlight,
of deep-eyed gypsy singers.                                            deep-eyed is lovely


Again, I see you in the garden,
and hear the Andalusian music rising,
the castanets louder, faster,
racing to the rhythm of my heart.


Love was simple, then,
sweet and blood-red                                                       I'm not sure how love can be blood red, unless it is a personal reference/
like the young garnacha                                                                                                                                                     memory
we poured and poured.


Those nights
we did not sleep,
but dreamed together,                                                    I like this very much


dreamed of each-other                                                   and this
all the slow hours of the night.
That was all.




This was a classic write. The kinda stuff I think of when I think of romantic poetry.
Mushy stuff, something that would make someone melt like chocolate if they
received it hand written in a card. Blessings to you.


nibbed