Cosmonauts Avenue
THE TRUE POET

My abuelo was the true poet:
The way he tilled the land with his hands,
Beneath the sun; he seemed to touch the sky

With his hoe. My abuelo was the true poet:
The way he joked with his mule as they rode,
The two of them alone with the dawn;

He seemed to reach the moon with his laugh.
My abuelo was the true poet: the way
He smoked his cigarette on the porch like a train

In the wind; he seemed to graze the trees
With his breath. My abuelo was the true poet:
The way he wrote the earth with his poems;

He could not use a pen with his hands.

Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on email