Village

by Carol A. Taylor

I’ve grown accustomed to a slower pace,
to red tile roofs and streets of cobblestone,
to silence and sonrisas. In this place

the air is sweet; the church tower overgrown
with bougainvillea. Evenings, vespers pass,
leaving a pungent echoing aftertone.

I walk the morning streets to Sunday Mass,
to market for naranjas, queso, pan.
Each month I hike out, flag a passing bus,

ride down the mountain to the nearest town
for doctor, bank, post office, telephone,
or sometimes simply for a change of view —
a liberated woman, on my own.
I check the mail for any news of you.