Poema #1

So, I wrote a poem on my commute, because I do that. And now I have a blog, so here it is:

First Days in Santiago

It is morning.
The beginning of September and the end of winter,
as if, when I wasn't looking,
someone shook up the seasons in my carry-on bag
and dumped me out with them into the vast gray chill.
I don't mind too much,
for the cups of tea are plentiful,
and where I come from the winters are whiter.
In this country you must go south for ice.

But this morning,
it is clear enough to see the mountains from my window
while I eat breakfast.
An orange,
half a sphere of sunshine on a red square plate.

If you want to keep your distance, they tell me,
speak in the formal tongue.
So I address the city like this:
peering into its trembling center
from a few familiar corners.
A little patience, there is time.
We will get to know each other.

I board the bus, count stops, get lost.
Learn to orient myself to the Andes.
Those giants that press the country
thin against the sea.
Breathe in: the smell of smoke and bread.
On a clear morning, you can see the mountains.
And you will be alright.