Villa Montalvo

a Spanish estate
sculpted from California adobe,
red tiled roofs,windows deep set against the sun,
tiny panes, walls unpainted, golden,
tiles brick red, rough hewn oak beams
blackened by the seasons of one hundred years,

baking under the Saratoga blue canopy sky,
sun bathing along shores of manicured lawns,
peopled with valley oaks, junipers,
pyrocantha and sage;

marble sculptures, vineyards, arbours,
secret courtyards with fountains,
landscape terraced, climbing
into the Los Gatos hills,
slanted roofs resting at ascending levels
along winding brick paths,
every turn another page,
another aromatic scent
of boxwood, eucalyptus and sage,

leaves rustle, swelling in a monastery chorus
carried reverently by cool breezes
in the always burning sun;

every turn another echo of song,
music played, pictures painted,
chapters written.

Here a grand piano seen through
vine-framed windowpanes
in a darkened room,
there, an easel holding
work in progress;

Urns of stone,
overgrown with foliage,
sweet olive, purple plum,
stone benches for sitting,
wrought iron gates,
and fences ten feet tall;

Lemon trees laden with yellow fruit
stand on either side of a brick walk
framing a romanesque temple,
traces of the old empire even here,

a marble fountain,
four marble patricians
holding it between them;

a place of long history
rooted in Europe and native cultures,
the dreamlike story of old California
envisioned first by a teller of tales
in old Spain,

then dreamed alive
every generation again.