A kitchen was an extraordinary
place for writing. Combined with Earl Grey
it practically wrote for you; I observed the ways
in which waves curled up and moved
towards the seagrass and back.

White foam raced to the shore
almost chasing something but
never quite reaching; slamming the rocks
on its path, smoothing out sands.
Then fade away.

I took a sip and chose a wave
to root for in this contest.
My eyes followed; observed it getting larger,
whiter, faster but all in vain. Sooner or later
it would disappear and become one
with all the others.

Grandfather’s clock had signaled dinner, as I
finished my third mug and looked at you.
Henry rubbed his ears against my foot
and jumped on the chair beside,
joining me in my daily hour of
wave surveillance.

Surrounded by scraps of paper
all over the timber floor
with a pair of morning rays
gleaming over her shoulder
she seated herself in her father’s study
and cruised to the shores of Norway.

Erasing word after word
tearing pages apart
her ship sailed
through the endless waters
of the Baltic sea
passing Copenaghen.

Holding onto the deck railings
and a loose-leaf notebook
she survived a storm
and a pirate invasion.
Her pen was her sword
in the shadows of the brightest star.

Leaning on the amber cupboard
that her father kept locked at all times,
she met a male whale and a female whale
or at least she thought so;
a chain of islands and Scandinavian mountains.
But it was time to moor, the brunch was ready.

With my toes in the sand
I let my tangled curls down,
so they could float in the air;
catching the wind and gliding through it,
like the seagulls do.

The current carries
scents of the deep waters
and all its residents;
I breath it in,
and fill my lungs with serenity.

A toddler stumbles,
landing on the wet shore.
He giggles as gentle foam
reaches his tiny body;
gets up and falters away.

As he grasps
his first steps of perseverance,
I rest my head on my knees,
peer out on the coasts of Malibu
and practice the art of gratitude.

They “fell in love”
They way a group of kids had a snowball fight
In the back of their granny’s yard

He rushed and grabbed fresh powder off the ground
Carelessly squishing it between his palms
Creating something ball like but not quite
the ball was not a smoothly polished one but rough and choppy
With bumps all over it, almost falling apart
But he was so eager to throw it at someone, he didn’t bother
To even look where his hand was aiming

Something ball like landed on her cheek
That turned red and icy

It hurt a little but with time
You couldn't even see the redness anymore
He rushed and grabbed some more fresh powder off the ground
He threw again
A different cheek was now a victim
of his whim

Another boy
sat quietly under the tree

Discovering the little snowflakes
that looked like crystals
If looked at
at the right angle
And shining bright  

He picked up little crystals with his palms

Watching the crystals shine a thousands colors
Under the beams of light
He gently squeezed the snow
between his hands
hands warm enough to melt the snow
And smooth it out
Making it icy, solid
Like a rock
But beautiful like no rocks are

He placed a glossy snowball in his palm
And realized
it wasn’t meant for throwing

He didn’t want the ball to be a cause of pain
Nor method of destruction or revenge
Nor shallow fun, the one that makes one happy and excited
But only shortly, until the redness is gone

He placed a snowball in her hand, without a fight
Without chasing or a scream I got you!

He definitely won the snowball fight.

I took a step or two and felt the salty breeze
coming from the east

My third step crushed
what seemed like a dozen clams
little shells breaking in half
making the most hideous sound

I remembered you saying
–  careful, hon, those are alive.
Which made me wonder
if this was the death they deserved

after all that jumping across the seabed
the moon pulled them up to this shore
to simply be crushed by me?

I don’t know much about death
and frankly I am not that experienced
in this particular field
but I know enough to conclude
they didn’t deserve this

What an awful death this must be.

I mean, any death is awful, really
not for those who are gone
but for the ones who are left
standing and thinking
about those who are gone
wearing black, passing the tissues around
crying and weeping and hugging and holding hands
reading the tear-blurred words
on the crumpled up paper
thinking about something completely else

but soon
someone will stand and think
and read about them too
and so it goes

an infinite cycle of clam-crushing.

I never believed in Horoscopes.
Dots of light across the dark azure
arranged in shapes of dippers and bears
did not seem to have significance
of any magnitude.
Except for the loveliness of its look, of course
and an integral part of books-based romance.  

Until the daily correspondence (you subscribed for)
landed on our doorstep
right by the flower beds you planted
last sunday;
following the argument we had
over the cat I always wanted and you never did.

“What the Stars Foretell”
occupied the front page with its bold
letters and lies
predicting the unpredictable,
obviously stating the obvious
and vaguely describing the vague enough
meaning of our distorted lives.

As you sat on the ragged couch
every morning from nine to ten
flipping deceptive pages,
I seated myself in front of you
with a plate of freshly made omelette
and a beverage of some sort,  
observing your pupils running marathons
from left to right.

Every morning I gave thanks
to insignificant stars
for a chance to observe you
in your natural dreamy habitat.