Paper Garden

At the margins of time, the paper garden breathes slowly.
The roots leaf through hours among folds of old dates.
Petals unfold in reverse first the leaf, then the page.
The sun measures milk like a kind of delayed beginning.
Here memories bloom backward, from tomorrow to yesterday.
The colors unroll backward, leaving traces of water.
The roses read the story from its finished start.
The aroma is a memory that seeks its first word again.
I walk among the paper threads, and time sheds its own garments.
The hours go washing from today to the first breath.
I gather unripe fruits, born from the idea of a day just begun.
And in the silence the garden decides to grow again, toward the beginning.