In Old Havana
 
you grabbed my hand and we walked
 
through the summer streets.

 
 
 

Unfurled umbrella—
 
I go to post a letter
 
in the winter rain.

 
 
 

A man drinking tea
 
lifts his arthritic left hand
 
to brush off a fly.

 
 
 

On my outstretched hand
 
a little brown sparrow lands—
 
sunflower-seed treats.

 
 
 

The tea in my cup
 
still bears the stains of the hands
 
that harvested it.

 
 
 

Moonlight in my hand
 
weighs less than a fly’s left wing
 
or a spider’s breath.

 
 
 

Nothing more remains
 
of the dreams I once held dear—
 
ashes in my hand.

 
 
 

Three, perhaps four, plums
 
await the harvester’s hand—
 
first weeks of autumn.

 
 
 

Languid afternoon—
 
two old men walk hand in hand
 
through the rose garden.

 
 
 

Still warm from the sun,
 
the plum in my hand quivers
 
as I take a bite.