He liked my garden

 

 

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.