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
