Fiesta

The old town square swings 
in the gentle desert breeze
as the band plays hot salsa and Grateful Dead, 
and couples dance and children laugh
in the dying day's lingering heat. 

We don't dance, 
although our feet tap,
our shoulders shrug 
to these fiesta rhythms,

We claim our seats 
under the ancient elm
in the cathedral's green yard, 
and watch as St. Francis, 
with sweeping gesture, 
blesses with eternal joy 
this lusty life.

In the deepening shade 
of trees and adobe wall,
we stand 
as the day declines, 
and the fiery sun descends 
beyond painted desert hills, 
the glorious moon rising, 
over Santa Fe