The Day of the Dead

The day of The Dead. The cemetery in Loule is on top of a hill, today early spring the steep hillside is full of luscious yellow flowers. Not like ripe lemons, more like Swiss butter, from the rich milk of cows will bells and horns; sturdy feet able to carry big, rose-pink udders and be milked by smiling maidens with strong arms creamy white as a Valkyrie’s bosom What you didn’t see- all this life- when blinded by the intensity of every sun lit flower came from a rotting coffins, the few day in early spring when the dead are let out, sway on a hillside and soak up the sun.