She's in pursuit of a pigeon
somewhere on the outskirts of her hometown.
There are rows of sunflowers,
there in the distance. It's an unsuccessful
chase, she almost had it, the pigeon.
It flew right away, just when she was
about to grab it. Her young lungs push
out a frustrated huff. The sun is setting.
The sunflowers are bending down. The pigeon is flying.
She's tired.
It is some day
in March
And everything is just
a few inches from
stupid.
I think a lot about
sunlight. I don't
do much. Silence.
Silence.
It shows up, looking carefully from behind the buildings.
Slowly, at first, but it's full-on laughing an hour or
two later. It's loud and I’ve never been happier.
All of winter was a joke. I don't care anymore, I
have zest for life again and a lawn sprinkled
with dandelions. I don't care anymore.
Kitchen sink, and in it sits my plate. Someone’s spoon, too.
An artificial smell - scent? Of neon yellow lemons
hits my nose.
A sudden tenderness - I don’t know what came over me - hugs my hands.
Soft and brittle dance around my head and I remember
that I’m holding something fragile. Plate.
Plate, plate, spoon, I whisper to myself.
Lemon. So much foam, a pleasant scent. A little bit of dish soap. Spring.
March will come in late February. Oh, such a breakable thing.
I am not a smart man.
I know this - I know this, because I don't do well in school,
nor do I know how to give my love the shape of a word.
In short, I am not clever, even though I try to be.
Yet, I think
I invented something.
The softness of the cheeks, the curl of the mouth, the
little wrinkles in the corner of the eyes - on your face, then mine.
With your laughter I am accomplished.
