In the mountains,

 
who still remembers your name?
The night-blooming cereus opens once a year
and the moon pours milk down its throat.
The man with the limp and the blind
man with the cane tap their way
down the road and bow before parting ways.
After women have hung the laundry on the line,
the earth relaxes toward dawn and exhales:
and this is what feeds the rain.
How can you tell that the hummingbird
doesn't sleep between each small
shudder of its wings?
In the garden, stones lay their cheeks
on pillows of moss but keep their eyes
open through the night.
That's how the stars can still
telegraph messages that the birds
have been unable to deliver.





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