My abuelito assumes his daily post on the stool,

and squats.  His knees crackle and his bare feet

with those long toes, hug the ground while hands

alternate a rhythmic up-down, up-down, then—

release. Drops of cream begin to bounce and clink

like familiar notes from pan flutes. The bucket

slowly fills with warm milk, swirling in various

off-white shades. Abuelito continues milking

knowing the cow can give him more, knowing

it has to in order to pay last month’s debts.

 

I watch curiously while barn smells

and colors filter through, find myself surrendering

to them, to the disgust of dirt and cow sweat and

human sweat and labor and bare feet and more

dirt again.  Everything about this sentiment is

beautiful. How had I never noticed before,

 

brown, the color of abuelito’s dry soil

waiting for rain?  So much beauty

sleeping in the potential of it.  Brown,

the color of untreated wood awaiting his attention,

perhaps gloss to make it shine.

Brown, the color of my own skin

during the coldest of evenings.

How beautiful it looks against light colors, how powerful

it feels against anything.

And brown, the color of cinnamon

sprinkled over the arroz con leche abulita will cook

tonight, knowing it’s my favorite.  How the warm taste of sugar

and cinnamon on my tongue will mix with abuelito’s words,

Is there a color more delicious than that?