His touch is wheat
when with tired hands he taps on our shoulders,
and a cypress rises in his silence
because he does not complain.
We did not understand grains then.
We did not understand dew.
He used to share a loaf of bread, like a miracle, among us
and share his days and commandments.
Keep it, always, hot
your bread, after me.
Past midnight, he wanders,
his tobacco between his fingers,
peering through our rooms
counting us
covering whatever we left exposed
looking out from the window
distant and ponderous.
My mother, who is
a thousand and one labyrinths,
all morning
follows his ember
ash by ash.