when the spring winds of Diego come and leave magic in the air

and the wine of long ago whispers of deep and sorrowful tunes of an

old fiddler who played  until he lost his way and heart in a forgotten war that books

no longer mention and then slip away silently

when the spring winds of Diego ride hard and bend the trees and

rattle glass until almost break reminding all of what could be and that

which never can return and be played on green ball fields or danced

in sad saloons any more

when the summer winds of Perez visit the hot alleys and make the

flies leave cafe tables but roast everything until it becomes a reddish

glow and curses are shouted and beer is never cold enough

and swimmers go far off shore and cobblers close early

when the fall winds of Fernando harvest more sand than wheat

warning of the hellish winters around the corner BUT on some mornings

those fall winds bring love along with the scurrying leaves and for years

old heads recall that moment when it arrived

but the spring winds of Diego always brush away the cold and forge

new promises to bind and new frontiers to walk

the end