after Antonio Machado
The wind pulled up and spoke to me one day.
The jasmine on his breath took mine away.
‘This perfume can be yours too, if you wants:
just let me carry off your roses’ scent.’
‘My roses? But I have none left,’ I said.
‘The flowers in my garden are all dead.’
He sighed. ‘Give me the fallen petals, then.
The leaves that rattle in the empty fountain.’
With that, he left me. And I fell to weeping
for the garden that they gave into my keeping.