Posty

Cauldron

He'd step into every fairytale unafraid of any creature we could meet or met before the ending came I followed him tiptoing around stepmothers' cruelties, looking into the lakes and caves for the answers we craved Locked in the kitchen, washing clothes, knitting, singing foreign songs she was unavoidable,  holding in her hand an estuary of every river of all distant lands as well as the one flowing  near the house where the three of us dwelled I saw her once carrying a couldron from somewhere She dragged it home, then spent her days cooking food  we couldn't help eating    to the final crumb She'd look at us  with her starry eyes as we left empty plates on the table and walked away ever hungry for stories she  could never  tell
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Fe

Ferrum Fregata Fragrance Fumes Fur Further Fear Fierceness Fire Firenza Fraction Floor Falcon Focus Foetus Fate Fatigue Fatal Fading Fare  Farewell Funeral Fermata Feet Freedom Fruit Female Flow Fortress Forte Fusion Family Fairytale Fabrics Factory Father Feather Figure Form Fish Fir tree
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New Moon

One month apart from Earth, on your way to god-knows-where are you lost or fine? I'm still here, searching  for a trace of your voice,  for the sound of your sigh When I'm spent, and about to resign, out of the blue the new moon, a shy toy on the dark blue fir tree of the sky reminds me  of you and all the Christmases we bent over the food Mother prepared, and that you always, always wished  me well
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Sensations

Towards the end of his days my father's skin felt silky  like a seal's hide  his white hair soft like honey  mixed with snow his hands - the universe of gentleness and love all around
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Opening

Opening one's eyes one can see simplicity of things:  the grain, the bench, the bread, one's  father's head  bent over  the book of prayers disguised as  maths pages of bees flying around one's father's bed when there's no one in one's father's room
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Raspberries

Under the lids of my eyes he is alive, picking red pieces of fruit from between green waves of leaves, his fingers cautious of the thorns. I know the shapes of his fingernails, the blazing sun at noon, the buzzing of the wings of holy insects, I can recite his movements, slow and regular, his ears, his face, his worries and his fears, the love that carries each of us the way he carries raspberries and brings them home
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Conversation

As you're at the other side is it the doubt I recognise growing between the trees, between the shades of us? Or is it just the rhythm of my heart that says to me something I cannot comprehend as yet? The garden does, you say.
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