Alma Novaes & Yula Elysian

 

Harvesting

You built me, in the backyard, a stone owl together to the Olive Tree, where I can sit in the late afternoon, waiting for you, to memorize the greens, next to the windrow. I always glimpsed any page blank to scrawl, As I got lost between Observation of the anthill next to the pillars and and the preambles of Maria Zé and Lúcio.

Ahead, the mountains. We get lost easily between past and future, In the shadows of the cold ground, that welcomes the feet safe from the hot summer, Inside, slabs and crockery Take care of the dark In the murmur of the waters, the avenue of the tailors. In the calming of the heat. The spring overflows in my hands, clay chestnuts. And I delight the senses, Sipping your fingers in the limpid thread of fertility.

On the table, on the other side From the hedgerows, someone calls to us: -The coffee is ready. I'll sit next to you, flowchart Burning heart, mug in my hand. In the hair the late afternoon breeze Caresses us as the sky sinks in. unfolds for us into roses and oranges. And you tell me about the formation of the clouds and direction of the winds Because you insist on being my meteor man.

Smell of white grapes, of childhood, sweet end of the day. We're going to be in September The Bountiful Harvest of the Flower Summer with pine and saw And I'll have to put on slippers To cross the earth hot and parched from the sun. And I will reap thee, love, with zeal,

The first berries of the baker's grape