Skip to: Content
Skip to: Site Navigation
Skip to: Search


Vacation at Zihuatanejo

By Alice Blackburn / January 12, 1989



What is life? A thing that seems, A mirage that falsely gleams, Phantom joy, delusive rest, Since life is a dream at best.

Skip to next paragraph

Calderon

In this Mexican town it rains blue-violet petals from Jacaranda trees, toucans shaking their wings turn into red and yellow fans. Fishing shacks on the pier rise and fall on waves of sunlight like boats in the water.

When I lie in a hammock a warm breeze lifts my hair, feathers my face. Nothing can keep me from sleep. It's as real as the smell of sea air, the soporific sound of waves. I know when joy touches, when it leaves.

Above me a lone frigate bird soars seaward, wings filling the sun, the sky a marbled blue. I can't stop gazing and sway as if a wind had caught me.

Calderon, what does it matter if a bird follows a ship or a shadow?