Under My Roof, At Last

Hello, old friend! How nice of you to stop by.

I must confess, though—I knew you were coming.

The blade of grass in front of my doorstep

Spoke of you today. Something about the way she stood—

Alone among a million in the damp morning—

she was a lily dressed as a green peasant,

lowly in disguise, a small emissary.

She was saying, “Rolando, your friend is near.

After so many years, your friend is near!”

There were other augurs.

I could talk about the giggling girls in the park;

Only when you are visiting can they laugh so!

And let’s not forget the boys who, for once,

Opened their fists like fast-forward flowers blooming,

and, instead of fighting, painted with their hands.

There was another indication, if I remember well:

a ray of the sun fell in love with a butterfly's shadow—

That, for me, was the telltale sign:

My oldest friend is going to be stopping by!

So, hello again, and thank you for coming on a sunny day.

I wondered as I opened the door, what face you’d be wearing;

The years can mold us like clay, Time being the Eternal Potter;
Thus my house is broken, my friend, but my dreams have straggled.

So step in: let your splendid feet meet my house.

The face you wear now is the most wondrous yet.

And you haven’t aged a bit, my dearest, oldest friend.

I know my face looks like it’s spent years stuck in a river,

And I know my house slouches like a withered vine—

There are too many splinters on the floor here.

But I preserved a bottle of wine, an 1885 we

Promised we'd share on the day of your return,

The day we’d begin the work on those wooden shreds,

On how grey everything is.

For I could have painted the walls,

But only you could pick the right color.

And I could have picked the splinters,

But only you would have seen all of them.