I walk down a cold Chicago block. 
All the homes are chipped 
brown, gray, and white. 
A neighbor burns wood nearby 
and the smell of smoke fuses— 
to the memories of my abuelita’s pueblo in México. 
To the fogón where she pats masa between sunkissed hands, 
forms tortillas to bless the black comal (un altar para el maíz). 
Thin brown branches burn at its base. 
Finally the first tortilla puffs, and it’s ready 
to be dressed in salsa y frijoles– 

On my neighbor’s roof, 
a black shingle flaps.  
The wind has puffed it loose. But— 

I’m beckoned to the tortilla  
whose burnt edges wait to touch my lips. 
The church bells en la plaza clang against the horizon. 
Each toll echoes through orange, yellow, and aqua homes. 
The doors and windows swing open as stars blink in the sky– 

and the crunch of my boots 
under dirty snow brings me back 
to dull homes shadowed in big city silence– 

There are cities full of streets where lives fold into gravel, 
but there are also corners that deserve to be unburied and exalted, 
like my abuelita’s pueblo where color resists the blood in the cobblestones– 

The neighbor extinguishes the flames, and the ashes swirl in the wind.  
When I reach the end of the block and look down at my boots, 
there is a smile carved into the concrete. 
For now, this is enough.