An overladen birch
Roots of which stimulate,
Shake, with a stony breath
Under the carpet of wilderness
Stingy insects rushing their way
To the broken heart,
Shattered as much as twigs around
Crumbling of which rustle,
Rustle with sweeping breeze,
Breeze that marked the end
End, a devastating one
Under the hanging birch
As the beetles sung the death march
The paddling flocked together
Dancing in a monotone of calling,
The silence of which silenced them..

I look at him, not for the first time,
And wonder what is happening behind his eyes.
He is older now, white hair, longer
Than when he played football
Then gave it up for something more practical.

Settled that is, he won’t admit it
And he won’t admit he’s settled too often in life;
But I know all his secrets sooner or later.

I have seen him since we were very young,
Most of the time we get along.
Sometimes we fight, but I’ve learned to co-exist

Today he’s like a stranger to me.
I can’t read him and I don’t know
What he plans to do with himself.
I lean with my hands on the sink and
Stare at him, but there are no clues
In the mirror

We are dwarfed
By the beauty of love
in its plural, singularity gigantic.




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