My love,
it might seem strange our encounter, and
the words that move the air like an earthquake, from north to south,
south to north,
bathing the stars,
and the stars aligning the sounds.
I will tell you more about Snow Town, but you tell me about your heart,
dreaming of going up north,
where saddened icebergs are melting in the eyes of the ignorant:
- can you hear how hungry white bears are screaming for help,
drowning with their babies.
Do not cry, my love, we still have the old mail post box,
monarch butterflies are bringing me letters from you,
the owls are watching every move
and the turtles
keep moving for hundreds of years
and never get tired.
We are so lucky, my love, so fortunate,
what else we can do if we are made for love, like butterflies.
Tell me, that no land can be more ready, dry-cold-hot
than the pole-north & chihuahua desert,
two lovers that only can dream of ice shadows, and the fantom of Georgia O'Keeffe, our mother, still, painting roads in the snow for the blind one,
calling them home.
