the cobblestone path to Santorini

they

were old burrows,

with sagged

backs,

covered

in woven

wool blankets,

striped,

but faded in color.

the man

at the bottom of the hill,

old as time

itself,

sat there

with his hat

where you tossed

your Euros

into, for a ride up,

but not back.

he motioned to the line

up

of donkeys.

i called mine 

Seabiscuit as we headed

up the treacherous

slippery

path to Santorini.

i whispered into his grey

ears, you can do it.

come on,

you can do it.

prayer

was necessary,

with

the rocks and ocean

just over

the stone wall,

a hundred feet down.

certain death.