Fought uphill
through wind and
thorns, grass crackling
with ice, to rest
on the summit
of a low hill,
snow on the
far mountains.
Laryngitic Valdivia
croaked a favorite
verse over the
carpet of flowers,
and, looking at
the gorgeous excess
of crimsons, blues,
and yellows,
thought of
Dona Ines.
Her absence
was a box,
small enough to
hold in one hand,
and in it
his beating heart,
visible through
the crystal lid.