Nothing is wasted.
The world eats everything.
Its juices dissolve the rocks,
the jellyfish, our eyes,
feeding its soul.
Creating honey in its hives.
Wood to cover its mountains.
The bacillus on our plates,
until nothing,
for being consumed,
is ever dead,
but transformed into leaves,
women,
whales,
and minstrels hearing songs.
How the air shouts it pregnancy!
The cemeteries open up their tombs
and become the shade
sheltering lovers,
dogs taking shortcuts
through the bleached epitaphs
that tell a tale.
A lonely ghost who lived there,
until the world invited it
to a street
where children jumped rope,
mothers strolled cherubs,
and geraniums filled pots
on the sill.
Clouds waved their whiteness,
the heavens brought the blueness
of the sea inland,
and the world wrapped its arms
around their shoulders,
and wrote a poem worth hearing.
I love you too much,
to let you die.
You are the vineyard
of my table.
The tears and laughter
of my wine.