A poem

I catch a glimpse of Spain's living
fabric on summer days in our kitchen
where threads of centuries are woven
again on the loom of now as melons of
sublime sweetness await under the table
like they always have, unaltered gazpacho
still graces rustic bowls, and we pour
water into a vessel, red clay soaking in
impurities, releasing the smell of earth,
and leaving the same pure water that has
refreshed ages of summer days in Spain.
Elizabeth Mata

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