Cuba Poem

Dawn and dusk

are my favorite times

of the day.

I get up early,

before drops of sunlight

dot the horizon

and walk

into the darkest part

of the night.

This morning

I set out

and walked

toward the main road

that leads to Havana.

The sky 

lightened 

on the eastern horizon.

An old man,

with white hair

and a weathered, wizened face,

wore a blue work shirt

and blue pants

rolled up 

at the ankles.

He rode

a rickety,

classically framed

bicycle

with a red basket

attached 

to it’s back.

“Buenos Dias,”

he said

with gentle, gravelly voice

as he pedaled his way

to get petrol

in a plastic bottle.

I turned left

to make my way

to places 

in the town

I have not seen,

I have not been.

My feet flopped

rhythmically

against the road.

I could hear

clearly

for there was

a certain silence

on the road,

broken only

by the crow

of a rooster,

the laughter

of two friends,

and the grunt

of a tractor

pulling a cart

of sleepy-eyed children.

The sun rose

on the horizon

of sky and land.

It sat

on the trees

like a giant, 

sun kissed orange.

I stopped

beside a field of sunflowers

along the road.

At first,

I saw 

only the back

of their heads

I stepped 

off the road

onto a dirt path

that led me

to the faces

of a thousand sunflowers

turned toward the morning sun.