Pomegranate blossoms creep
through the dusty streets of Granada
and I am in love.
I always wanted to be a bullfighter.
It is one of those things I could never explain.
Even now, when I hear one of those Spanish trumpets,
I get goosebumps.
Maybe they are bullbumps?
Red has always been the truest color.
Blood, blush, bricks and barber poles;
the shade of birth and love.
The red rose says more than all the poems
ever written by anyone.
Why do you think that bulls love red?
Sipping sweetly from deep, earthen wine,
Miles Davis’ “Sketches of Spain” at sunset;
it is just one of those things I could never explain.
Pomegranate blossoms creep
through the dusty streets of Granada
and I am in love, yet again.
