Steps





My father in front of me

behind the white wooden gate

he leaning against the red cadillac

with others

a corner look


as I watched my left foot in the air

I was trying to balance me on the pavement


my first steps

beside me my mother wearing a patterned dress

my grandmother behind

with brown skirt 

and a starched white blouse


I noticed the roses

the grass

the flowerbeds

the smell of the air

the trees

the rumour of dripping water

falling in a tank

the blue and white sky

the garden of freedom

I am someone who came from a place that never was. River water, calm lakes, waterfalls, edges where bushes and trees grow, the open field, the sky reflected in my hands in the trembling mirror of the river, the waits I am, this man lying in the river in the middle of autumn of my existence, loves his children, he likes to be alone, and he has a great company. I leave out the conceptual groups that put their finger on the face and follow fashion. I try not to be like that. In this boat, I am also the water where I sail. I take the sky with me, the fields, the flowers, and the fragrant herbs all my mornings. I am a being of the dawn. The scandal of nature in the voice of a bird, the incessant hum of the bells that insects make. I look like it, but I am not afraid of anything. I do not think I ever was. Indeed, my father, especially my mother, sweetly led me to read and write. I am always primary; I am still learning to read and write, row, and let the boat go safely. pmnt

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