Her curves, so beautiful.
That northwestern hip of Costa Rica.
Lush. Foreign. Every few kilometers of travel a surprise.
I love running down her thighs,
and gearing up those elevated views,
once atop, looking over
shoulders at a sun turning colors
in tropical hues.
Her beauty mark
serves my druthers.
Circular. Calm. Shallow shores.
Sans gringos, only Ticos,
palms lined like soldiers for a few miles or more.
And at each tip her headlands project into the sea,
gnarl their teeth,
forming the boundaries of
the crescent foundry that first started to shape me.
We sit together.
I take in smells and rest in her breath,
I want to grow old with her.
She commands a certain respect.
offer me market-fresh pork,
and the spoils of soils
like the dark taste of coffee.
Time with her heals my soul.
And each morning my cold
her warm brew.
Are you kidding me?
Contigo, lo tengo de la naríz!
What more beyond my Lord
can one adore in such a broken, abhorrent world?
Each sip from the earthly server
sets my morning spirit anew.
Hers is a rural,
Photo by: M.Prinke