Ecuador

 

Each time my mind wanders across fields to Ecuador

I feel Johnny Panic tickling my brain

As kindling thoughts drift onto a bed of soil,

Like migrant seedlings nesting

After smokers exhale and dust is stirred up in some urbanite city.

Seeds of anticipation cultivate now, as exhilaration grows

And the soft born-again tendrils of an Ecuador itch take root in my heart.

My breath flutters around like the wing of a drunken butterfly so

Parched, steadily withering in a sea of identical grains of sand

That choked the soil, but solidified the resolve.

I am the child who wanders by the infantile ivy

Tugging its roots prematurely

To taste what may only come with time

Still I find it inconceivable to act content

While my soul screams ¡Ecuador!