My true home is here in Simancas where Pyrenees joy bursts into air like wind carries Spain's oceanic light. In this place the moon wolf cries at nightfall in a voice of hunger. The sky moves like weeping blankets of folding white snow. Rain falls in silver thread and feeds our valley of farmland and silent homes with smile. Here is where the conquistador spirit is born, set free from the edge of shore, and like a woman's sunlit beauty, is captured and carried away by the warm ebb and flow of fragrant word.