to my father in the garden

As soon as you went tiptoe into the garden
the earth immediately fitted your feet and then
followed them inside. It was us who knew
that there was no more way to clear it.

The trees, you lifted them just a hem
of their skirt to let a rivulet pass,
then you glued yourself on the resin
of the cherry tree, leafing through an old
lighter sheltered from the wind.

The worn keys you held since ever
were no more for opening or closing
but they knew the tracks of your hands
while with the third finger you depollinated
your unbroken curved cigarette.

At the promises of actions and words
you granted one of your It’s not worth,
and maybe right this long hated lesson of yours
I will have to support tomorrow
impostor, in front of the young crowd of mistakes
when the fruits will rot on the ground
not far from the branches
and the millipedes will stay
rolled up on themselves, still,
under the heavy pots of the ferns.

Originally posted in Italian on April 9, 2008 at 18:24