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"Time like an ever rolling stream
bears all its sons away."
Our God, Our Help in Ages Past (hymn)
I hoe furrows in my garden
careful not the roots to disturb.
The land is rich with decay
and past seasons.
On my best days,
I can reach ito the soil
and marry my soul with the green world --
tarragon and escarole,
lemon balm and sage --
envy the power of black earth,
before bloody clay seeps into view,
and no stones,
farmer's curse.
Years ago grandfather cleared
ten acres by Cibuco
to wrench subsistence from red clay.
Family pictures revealed
a lanky, broad-shouldered man
silhouetted gray against an aqua sky,
red dust staining his shirt orange
in days rough, without mercy.
Yet he loved his land and seeded that
love among his children even when the wind
scattered them to a distant place.
Grieving Black Thursday,
grandfather watched as an ox-cart
carried his people north to Babylon and exile.
Years later I saw the farmhouse set
among overgrown fields.
The barn long collapsed.
Only the ribs of the south framing
stood raised against the turquoise sky.
I uprooted cane grass
and crumbled clay between my fingers --
this is what men live and die for.
Your soul spoke to me that night
when the wind troubled
the netting around the bed.
I laid half watching a moth
batter itself senseless against the light.
The room's furniture reminded me of another era,
when men defined their lives
through the labor of their hands.
Footsteps sent the floorboards creaking.
I felt your presence in the hallway.
The door opened, and there you stood:
a mute specter dressed in white,
haunted by the stranger in search of his past.
Abuelo, I have traveled far to this place of silence
where your labors drained you
before your final rest.
My people took your bones
and set them down into black earth.
Sleep easy, grandfather,
nothing kills love.
- Frank Varela
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