Romance of the Spanish Balconies

Those well-wrought balconies
floating above our pedestrian heads
come as close as mortals may
to Bacchantes’ dulcimers and castanets—

should the homes they daintily adorn
ever step into such an intended role.
Oh, are they not beds for chords—
frets on the gypsy guitar’s graceful neck,

carrying sweet orange orbs and curves
from a solemn orchard’s perfumed hedge,
where the sunset moves to sink and stay,

wedging deep into the silence of night,
when, in that purpled dark and flaming dance,
in lieu of a toast, they raise mending alabaster heels.