Granada   Spain again, and learning: autumn turns each day rich, the frugal November sun nurses gold from grapevines, and so it earns our thanks for summer sweat. Everything's done, rendered whole.         With the stillness here I feel in between pendulum swings, in the pause too long for time; poles of force congeal; all momentum, cushioned and steadied, draws silent.                But the silence cries its name, edges become crisp, distinct -- this is it, revelation of form, of what became enmeshed in movement, now at rest.                                        We sit near an Alhambra pool: perhaps tonight a moon will fuse from sparks of dancing light.   © Michael Fleming Granada, Spain October, 1984   top of page  other sonnets  shorter poems  longer poems               e-mail to Mike  Fox Paws home page