What season includes me?
I’m not an apple you can pick
and leave your kisses on.
A thistle that pricks your fingers,
touching an irresistible face.
Morning, fuzzy with frost,
inviting you to be naked.
To be a kite in spring,
a carousal in summer.
A puma crouching on the horizon
in fall.
What season could I be
to fall like snow on an ancient city
and turn it white?
Fly south and cross the equator?
How does a man,
hunched in his shirt,
commemorate the passing of the year?
Play the guitar like his father
at the greening of the earth?
Hoist new sails
when the warm wind returns?
Choose his favorite holiday
with a festival,
or be a harlequin,
and wear the colors of each season.
Plaids, geranium red,
pastels,
white sweaters woven from lamb,
and eyes,
reflecting every season inside them,
with a lifetime to love?