For a minute we sit, the bougainvillea, the sunset and I
in a minute the sun starts to dance, revealing the real colors of everything around
when he’s done, tired but happy he pauses on his knees and asks us to sit next to him again,
he has stories to tell. The kinds that are collected over years of ripe living.
He doesn’t tell them, he only covers my eyes with his palm, the beautiful colors
of the sunset evoking in me my own sunset stories, that bring me back
many years to a simpler time,
and slowly we catch each others fingers in reassurance,
the fluid rays beaming through mine, making them almost transparent.
Simpler times are indeed in the mind.