Once, in San Miguel de Allende

I remember that night
she came to the courtyard,
emerging from the darkness
like a butterfly from a hedgerow
to float in the lamplight
for an awaited Señor. 

And I remember as I watched her
in her flowing white blouse
and her high platform shoes,
the pulse of my heart in my drunken aloneness—
and my own swish of desire
for another, within.

But how long she fluttered there
anxiously waiting—
as she fussed with her hair
and the purse on her shoulder,
entreating the void with her burnt umber eyes—
I don't know

Only that, there in the desert,
I waited as she waited, wanted
as she wanted; the feel of the breeze
of the paintbrush of Being
blending with warmth the dark shades
between us—

Only drinking deeply,
and in love with the possible.
Only at the knife's edge
of attainment and desire—
here on this canvas,
only now.