Picture by Francisco Hernández


Winter in madness has drawn nigh.
The elation of finality fills the air.
The once snow-covered fields lie bare,
And the blue of your skies is veiled.
“Tis only that you sleep,” I tell myself,
“Tis only that you sleep.”

The emptiness of your kitchen weeps in sorrow,
And your windowsills no longer dress in green.
Yet the sweet aroma of tomato plants, of peppers,
And of cucumbers still the senses lure.

The thud of your cane across the hall no longer
Your entrance trumpets. No greetings, no hugs,
No warm and friendly conversations.

The beaten path in your garden
Will in time your face forget,
And the black canvas of your soil
Your tender hands will miss.
Yes, the gentle hands that did
And gave so much.
How can I forget?

Though it only seems as yesterday,
Many winters have come and gone
Their way, yet your voice still
resounds—like chapel bells—in
The open fields: “come in, come in,
Supper is almost ready.”

Many winters have come and gone
Their way, yet the taste of corned beef
Sandwich still my mouth recalls.

Many winters have come and gone
Their way, yet there you are, gazing out
The window pane, waiting for the opportunity
To catch a darting bird, a buzzing bumble-bee,
Or a fluttering butterfly—you loved poetry.


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