Alma Novaes

Boor

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 the

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, malga in 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