Ferrolho III

"Àquela hora o jardim recendia a erva-doce e folhas secas, ao branco escurecido das paredes ao sol. Aquelas duas horas de verão e ele olhando, nenhuma brisa, se preparava já para sair, quando um homem apareceu lá de trás, veio vindo devagar, meio curvado e sempre, se aproximando até o portão e Boas tardes, e Aqui a chave, o Senhor olha e depois me devolve, pode gritar quando terminar. O homem voltou-se e saiu andando  para os fundos da casa de onde veio. Parado, ele olhava alternado homem, casa, jardim, casa, o cheiro vindo do jardim. (...)"

mais do texto, aqui.

Ferrolho II

Ocre diz seu nome

Ferrolho I

Medo verde. Quantas prisões não ousam dizer seus nomes.

Time hides behind those glasses

In 1956 I had opened that door

[We had almost two feet of snow. I spent most of the morning shoveling it out of the uncovered porch and the pathway that led to the cabin. Later in the afternoon, Jemime appeared from across the lake. I could not believe she had made that far. With a book in her hand. Eyes almost impossibly green...]

Hidden garden

[Behind the gate, a summer garden. Plants of an extravagant size, sided by earth-beds of cultivated herbs: the scent of rosemary right behind the wall waking up a collection of tea-making weeds, dispersed throughout the impossible back yard: clove, artemisia, cardo bento, garden mint, jessamine, coriander, lilies, basil, chamomile, snapdragon, lion's mouth, rue, herb-of-grace, sandalwood, dragon's blood.

Fruit trees on the back of the patio: guavas, sapotis, mangos flowering: bats have nightly parties, here. I could smell the scent of recently moist soil, footprints of this gardener following bays and channels across the vegetable garden to the right, leading back to an early walk by an orchard.

On a window sill, water-filled colored glasses sit through the day: violet for elevation, these subtleties; blue for words and throat; green for lungs and heart; yellow washing liver, intestines, calming anxiety; orange and sex; and finally red, centered on the sill, more exposed to the sun. Red for the structure of my path. Legs and feet.

My armchair, my walking stick, my road diverging in two.

Hunger, real hunger, was left on this side of the wall.]

Door knob

- "Você ainda falará comigo? Vou ficar aqui, sentado nessa calcada, pleno sol de meio-dia, uma poeira no ar, nem sinal de chuva para esfriar, um carro perdido a séculos de casa, sem rouxinóis nem bem-te-vis, tudo uma solidão de pedra, bem sussuarana e jequié, muitos silêncios.  Não me deixe. Volte. Um dia, afinal, a chuva há de chegar  por aqui.."