Ávila in April's Clouds

The town spills over with a slow-paced sanctity

My heart aches for the sun-faded stone cathedrals

Hallow be thy name

Yet hollow are the halls

Around every corner

antiquated piety bursts at the seams

Yet no one to sew them up

Church doors remain locked

Tired tourist feet amble to gift shops

Our conversations punctuated by rain drops

Our hunger satiated by savory meats and fabes beans

Sheeny oil pools in my stew

from the holy trinity:

Morcilla, tocino, y chorizo

After la siesta

A sister greets us with an aged smile into God’s house

Open, at last

The stale air cradles us cradling each other

Did Saint Teresa breathe life into these chambers?

Later we wander to la muralla

Visions of the verdant mountainside

Free from the jagged stone walls

And somnolence baked into the town’s brittle bones