21st of November
Sunday is a big closet with winter cloths
smelling of mothballs and sage;
it has the shape of an umbrella hanging in the tiled
hallway.
People talk louder on Sunday noon,
walk heavier Sunday afternoon,
laugh more Sunday evening, perhaps
because they don’t want to accept they’ve
nothing to say,
they won’t realize that they don’t walk
and they’ve nothing to laugh about.
Yet, uncle Psomas has a lot to say; he can make
cribs and ships out of fallen trees, he can read
the future in dried broad beans, he can talk of the corn
braids, of birds and years, even of the cow’s shadow
at dusk, and of his shoes which he hangs off his shoulder
as if he has to walk a long distance.
Then, I understand that I don’t know anything
and that it’s not right to write all these verses
since I never learned how to create a straight path
as uncle Psomas walks with no fear of wearing out
his shoes.
Libros Libertad 