Besides being houses of worship, the churches of Guadalajara serve their communities by hosting various meetings.
In one of them, a class for adult learners of English meets every Wednesday evening. Last night, I was the honored guest.
In an upper room of the church, twelve students and their teacher welcomed me into their circle. Ranging in age from early 20s to late 60s, they introduced themselves to me. I was delighted to hear one of the women say she is a poet.
“I want to talk to you later,” I said, “because I write poetry too.”
After nearly ninety minutes of dialogue, our time together came to an end. One by one students left the room, thanking me for coming. Ana Bertha approached me with a piece a paper. On it were several poems she had written.
“This is for you,” she said.
One of the poems begins with this line: Eres solo mi amigo y ya te extraño. (“You are only my friend, and yet I miss you.”)
That’s exactly how I feel about poetry: It is my friend, and I miss it with an indescribable ache when I can neither read nor write it.
It’s as though Ana Bertha had written her poem just for me.
last full moon of spring
a frog in the backyard pond
basking in the light
Text and photo © 2016 by Mark M. Redfearn, all rights reserved