Andalusite

The black silky waves of her hair have flown
Along with the richness of gold and red
And both have beset her dress and ivory back.

In the summer feverish nights
Her eyes seemed to have collected all the rain
As the clouds long ago abandoned their heavenly bed,
In search for gentler weather.

The night birds extended their wingspan
To caress her face and sing
About the beautiful Spanish andalusite,
Eternally cursed with melancholy.

For she was the queen of the castles and the sand
Of creeks and valleys and the Southern land,
But his soft and slender hand
She could never cradle in hers.