Crown of Aragon

When I consider our intuitive

Talents, I can’t refrain from adding “a”

To Aragon. Royalty is the blood

That stained Grandpa’s tile, as if it were olive

Oil soaking sourdough. The gait that inches

Rubber soles over gravel floors is Nana’s,

Her memory resting just far enough

That it’s out of reach. Their vines are dwindling,

And I, the vigneron, will graft the links

That joins our lineage. There lived a poet

Named Tullia– whose Dialogue and Sweet

Fire forge our very soul– whose surname akins

To Lady Catherine. To write this poem,

The Royal table must have open seats.