They stand in the corner.
Generations who emptied their hands
of sun and storm,
sea urchins in the tide
below the weather of the sea,
moons that fell like hail
into its depths.
The generosity of love.
Abu, my father,
the faces of grandmothers
and grandfathers.
The old, when they reach frantically
to give,
in the end,
only their hearts
laid piece by piece on the table,
giving us our bread,
recipes of leaf and fruit,
hieroglyphics of clouds,
and words written in the bark
of trees.
Tears we mistake for dew,
joy covering the windows of winter.
Voices that leave us
singing old songs,
that are children’s songs,
and festivals, and dancing.
Always in the corner,
giving, giving,
where the shadows are luminous,
we feel them,
their hands on our faces,
stroking our hair,
lullabies telling us
the wonder they see in us,
when they themselves
are wonderful.