on the first day of spring
my mother died

she had always loved flowers
and had turned
our interior hallway
into a luscious greenhouse
   father was not always happy
   about the falling leaves

in her later years
when skiing was no longer hers
she hated winters
   their long nights
   their waning sun

she was always longing
   for spring
waiting for the day
the morning sun lit up
the kitchen desk again
in her parents’ house
where she was born
   and had grown old

the night before
I had called and told her
that here in the south
the first flowers were already
   dotting the gardens

she had smiled on the phone
   almost inaudibly
speaking had become difficult

   maybe her last images
   were of colorful spring meadows

today at 7.10 a.m.
my mother died

spring has come

More urgently than driverless cars
we need more car-less drivers!

this poem
is not about you

even though
your spirit is in every word
your voice sounds strong
in the halls of my mind
telling me things
I am now sure
I want to know

this poem is
about me

trying to understand
you

Is there an owner on this ghost house?
Little creatures creeping from every corner
Scared and scary but mostly frightened
By the very fact of their existence
Speaking screaming interrupting never
Listening to each other's story
Never fully in agreement loosing track of perspective
Mistrustful of trust and disgusted by care...
Such is a mind of a once broken child
Can we put him back in his cot?
Can we look into his wide open eyes and believe
His is the truth of suffering and search for lost hope?
Should we ask the child knowing he knows not the answer?
Wouldn't we confuse him furthermore
Seeking answers drained from his broken core?
If only the child returned to the haunted house
If only he found his courage
Maybe he would make sense
Of all this mess.
We'll just sit here and watch