Alberto Caeiro And I In Heaven
Dying is me walking up the hill to Caeiro’s whitewashed house, the solitary one
And my boots don’t make any noise,
And the grass on his hilltop is grazed all short by a whole flock of metaphors
I don’t have to hold tight or right or tense any more. I make pies for Caeiro and I leave them to cool in the morning on our windowsill in the sighing breezes.
Each night before bed I step outside the porchlight’s half circle to take a breath of the air, to greet the evening comet and the new planets passing by
Caeiro stands beside me and he is dead too. We are both silent and peaceful and dead, and the earth and the wind and the cricket sounds are around us, and there is grass in quiet, unceasing motion
We go back into the solid white glow and we drink ewe’s milk from a pair of brown mugs. I ask Caeiro what we will do tomorrow
He says we will go outside and just look around and notice things and not think of anything at all
I say that will be nice.
Then, in the cool dark, it is time for rest.
