Those of you like Eliana, who have generously taken the time
to study my first two books, will
know that I have a very soft place in my heart
for yerberos, people who study herbs and plants
for traditional healing.
And when I was in Cuba, I got to meet this wonderful gentleman
behind the counter.
And he was missing half an ear and he had a limp
and he had a perpetual cough.
And there he was dispensing these herbs
and telling me that he hadn't seen a doctor in 25 years.
He looked like he was at death's door, right?
And so I tried and I tried to get some of that in the poem.
The poem ended up a completely different kind of poem.
But anyway, that's the picture that I have of him.
At first, he was a little weary, but I said, well, you know,
I'm perfectly willing to stand here until you have the time
to talk to me.
Well, by the end, he was checking my spelling.
And I would be writing and he'd say, no, no, no, no, no, no,
no, you know.
And then he said, don't you want to take my picture?
And so I said, well, sure.
And I have this wonderful picture.
He looks like Miss America.
He picked up this big batch of flowers like this
and he's smiling.
So he's someone that I'll always remember.
Don Jaime.
Lame, only 1 and 1/2 years, raspy cough, but down the road,
he shuffled in the silent dawn.
His grandson dragging a large basket
for gathering cures growing wild on the Monte outside Havana.
Cures tasting of bark and root, salvia, verbena, porton de oro.
Flowers yellow as canaries, boiled into hot perfume
irresistible as honey.
Dizzying butterflies that doze on the baskets
and bodies of healers.
Harvests of faith by calloused hands that rest
in the rustle of leaves.
Hand us ancient teas, pale green steam,
which if inhaled with closed eyes,
makes us wonder where we've been.