I trimmed your hedge at the cemetery
with the practicality that unites us,
then I stopped by dad’s
pruning shears in my bag.
Rosemary has invaded his flowerbed
and my nostrils.
I took home the scent of his words
that resonated like a prophecy,
years later confirmed by events.
I am the result of a love,
a long-lived and timeless love
that still sows fruit,
little piles of bones and ash
to nourish the roots of my trunk.
The gestures and words I perpetuate without realizing they are the result of love.
And if I stop to look at that photo on the gravestone,
it seems to come to life on the screen
of this narrative nowaday.