the old summer houses
— home to me
lonely for you —
are waiting
in the snowstorm
for a cup of tea;
for imagination
of rehearsal goodbyes,
of floors, paintings, birthday
people, knees, drugstore biscuits
joy and geraniums!
but i stand frozen
in the afternoon rain.
would you go
play my part?

a man is making music; playing a wooden piano and writing a song from the stories in his head. a woman has left away the dust on her black shoes, in a previous rain's puddle on the street. you're alone in your apartment. you have made another coffee, read a poem and sang to yourself in the evening. somewhere there has been an argument between lovers. two lovely people trying to untangle themselves out of a word-chaos, and just be held a little longer. loved a little more. the blue in the skies have gone and come again. and as we sit here in our joy and pain and relief and melancholy and warmth and heartbrokenness — a wet plate in the kitchen has slowly dried. a dog has found a warm sun spot; circled around it and settled for an afternoon nap. a ripple in a pond has dissolved into stillness, after the children ran out of pebbles and left the park. as we grieve and celebrate — the world has gone on breathing. moving and changing and creating life. no matter how we see it in the moment, the world is still gorgeously magical. it has always been. it will always be.

when you're
back home
after a night
of storm,
coldness
and rubble,
there will be
a quiet kitchen
and two blue
cups of coffee.
when you
reach here,
rest your wet
hat, and wash
the dirt out of
your hair.
take off
your coat
and sit down.
there will be
oranges, kiwis,
lemons resting
on the countertop.
fresh flowers
in an old ***.
an orange cat
laying in the
afternoon sun;
a sweet dog
in slumber.
in your stillness
you will revisit
the storm in
memory —
be careful
to only look
from a distance.
the monotone
sound of a vacuum
in the other room,
will bring you back.
you can sleep
here, or take a
walk along the
road outside.
or drive to
the beach.
after the storm
when you
come home,
there will be
hot jardineira
with whole
vegetables
for lunch.
and roasted
cinnamon apple
if you'd like it.
after the cold
when you arrive,
you will have
a place to
cry and
laugh
and live.
you can be
here for
as long as
you want.
come soon.

poetry,
on a
strange
day,
is in swirls
through time
in a rainy sky.
it's six am
somewhere,
while it's twelve
in the afternoon
somewhere else.
here
it's just
today.
the knock
of the bottom
of our
cups
put on the
top of the table;
the swish,
swoosh,
******
of the outside
when a visitor
opens the door.
i am afraid
i will forget
my words,
and that you
will ask me
of the world
and find that i
know nothing.
but you talk
about oranges.
piquant, ...sweet,
and simple — i
find it easy
to talk about
oranges.
almost
comforting
to imagine it
in tea and made
into jam, and had
for breakfast.
sounds of cutlery
and steam from
the coffee machine;
the smell of
winter air.
this is not
a big moment —
big moments
scare me.
this is
inconspicuous.
you are
shy, and
i am unpredictable.
and you have
brought me
wildflowers.
inside,
it's still today;
outside
... i'm not sure.
look —
there is a moon
in the morning,
and there
is poetry
in the sky.
where do we
go from here?

a house
in the
morning
sun.
lavender,
blue
and
grey rugs,
a yoga mat,
a small
wooden
table.
coffee-cup
with tea
on the table.
the front door
is open to
the porch;
the air smells
of tea steam,
and the mogra
down the street.
the kitchen
countertop
is dry;
a saucepan
atop
the stove.
walls — cold
from last night's
downpour.
houseplants —
extraordinarily
sleepy.
a warm, grey
and white
duvet,
brought
from the
bedroom
and put next
to the table
with the tea.

the
soft hum
of the
passing
cycles,
and the
occasional
yellow bus.

the
soft sway
of the
living-room
curtains.

here, on
the ocean
the days merge
with the nights,
and the
afternoons
are like
purple evenings.
there is coffee,
and for the
first time in
a long time,
no one asks
for the parts
of you.
no one
needs you
to give.
so, you sit
outside
a bit longer —
sunlight on
your skin;
the salty air
in your ears;
in your desk,
your chair,
your wavy grey hair
and everything
that makes you.
salty air
in the memories
that you never
forget.
the new babies,
the barking dog,
the empty cups,
the paper,
the printer,
the light switches,
the stove,
the restaurant,
the theater,
the good people,
the bad days
— salty air.

life is long
enough for
you and i
to forget that
we will not
have this
for ever.
life is short
enough
to not think
about it
too much.
so you
sleep more,
and try
to unlearn
the coldness
a dusty world
taught you.
at sea,
you love.
you love
the lavender
in the skies,
warmth of
a coat
and yourself.
you love
the braveness,
the bitterness
the sweetness
of you.
can you
believe how
endless the
ocean is?
this is bigger
than the world
on ground. bigger
than the desk,
the chair,
the grey hair
and
loneliness.
the universe
and its magic
is as yours
as it's anybody's.
here, you
can take space.
unfurl your
shoulders and
have a breath.
so you do,
in this little
moment
outside in
the sunlight.
you think
and you cry
and you smile
with your
eyes closed.
you live in
this moment —
a full life.

isn't it funny
how memories
become memories?
evaporating
from a room;
becoming a
cloud in the brain?
grey ones
and silver ones.
here, there
is space for all.
there is joy
and trauma
and melancholy.

the sun
is slowly
disappearing,
and life
is still
too long
and too short
for anything.

so you
sit outside
a little longer;
with your silhouette
against a rosy horizon,

you let it rain.

would it be
absolutely,
undoubtedly,
ridiculously
foolish of me
to think you
might think
of me,
as wonderful?
to think
the universe
is holding us
together
in the loveliest
of dimensions?
could i
for a moment
believe, you
aren't disappointed
by my ordinariness,
as i am sometimes?
that you find
my okay-ness sublime.
find comforting
my grammatical
mistakes and
mispronunciations.
maybe i'm
cute to you
with my crooked teeth,
soft stomach,
anxious heart,
shapeless hair.
maybe it's
crazy to imagine
you could
care about
the people
and things
that i love.
completely unrealistic
that i was
loveable
to you for
no particular reason.
there is not a chance
the world works
that way.
laughable
to talk about
a conspiring,
sentient universe.
...but
would it be
clearly foolish
of me to
still
think you
might think
of me
(of me!)
as wonderful?
would i be
just
out of my mind
to think you
might think
of me
at all?