He liked my garden
He was sixty years old, a blue visor,
white beard, and a green motorcycle.
I was sixteen,
and he waited for me outside the school.
He liked my garden
and wanted to plant his flower there.
I went with him,
he wrote me handwritten letters
full of love and promises,
and we strolled through the blossoming park.
He liked my garden
and wanted to plant his flower in it.
I didn't pay much attention to him and laughed at him,
but sometimes
I opened the door to my garden for him.
His wife had left him,
and he had a son somewhere,
a green motorcycle,
and I remember him
in the dawn
of some of my nights of love,
because he loved my garden
and wanted to plant his flower in it.
Today, already at the same age,
sharing with memory
the past youth,
I think about the little
mysteries of life.
I don't know anything about him,
and I remember him,
the first night
under the stars
that I opened the door
and let him into my garden.
And I remember him
with his blue visor,
his white beard, and a green motorcycle,
and that sunny afternoon
on the beach
when we built sandcastles,
letting the waves lick
our feet.
mvf.
