Snowdrops will soon wake up
from their sweet dreams,
feeling the cold, light
and fluffy snow around,
the rays of sunshine falling over them.
Spreading fresh and pleasant frangrance.
Embellishing the season with their shiny, white colour.
They don't want to be detached from home - the soil.
They don't want to be trampled.
They want to be loved just as us.
Roses that smell like citrus and melons.
red wine covers my bones.
how I love the sway of the moon...
she sings to me.
the roses use the sun as a decoy.
I haven't felt so alive in decades...
the dirt dried my tears.
the shade discovered my fears.
here I stand.
here I am
she sings to me...
love me forever,
love me forever.
I have very sad eyes and white hands.
My child will be born happy.
Over the earthen bread the napkin of the sky will fall,
the baptism of my son among the men who, just like me, love
their land and their work, the joy of giving, the beauty of being human,
the tall firs’ grace, the murmuring waters, the living seed within the ground.
Upon the teardrops of bodily pain a song will fall,
that unseen song that was written on a starlit staff.
For us it’s raining too much, too often,
someone gathers all cornflowers and scatters them on our bed.
When I look into my child’s eyes I am smaller and smaller,
I am warmer and warmer and I have a house of my own
with fireplace and toys,
with simple windows that let the clear sky come in entirely
after my child wipes off the steam of his breath.
All those flowers between us and we stay together.
My child plays with my fingers without counting them.
For him they are more and more as he touches them.
Just like me, he was born happy.
pressed flowers are still dead flowers,
like dressing up a corpse.
a naive form of taxidermy;
creating beauty from dead things.
daily, i spend several hours
cowering over mortality,
wondering if i, too, will be
stuffed, positioned in motion,
my presence interwoven
in stories and broken words,
scattered like ashes in the ocean.
or, perhaps, i'll only be
a narrative forever at rest,
between pages of poetry.
We are desperately clinging to the past
We cannot let it go
We clutch on to it with sweaty palms
Out grasp is slipping
We cling hopelessly to the familiarity of the past
But it can't last
We have to sever the grasp
Against our will,
the hold slips
Lost in the abyss of the past.
We must take an axe to our Roots
Nature will run its course and plant our seeds where they need to be
in order to evolve into a stronger, greater species
After letting go, we let the wind carry our soles elsewhere
Soles sink into new healthy soil
We look behind us
Waiting to see the past chasing us, struggling to catch up
But our eyes behold a new unfamiliar landscape
that's ready to take us through a new adventure
We yearn for new self discovery
Passion sizzling in our stems
It may feel like a storm, but it is a mere shower that all flowers need in order to grow and blossom.