Hanging on a fiery iron stem, without rust, still.
Drops ready to fall.
Life for disparate plants, cultivated or left.
The yellow-chest bird
Is scampering — CIAF, CIAF –
Unconscious and delicate.
Now, proud, he is picking up a leaf, torn and scrunch:
concrete for a safe and joyful nest.
Now he is disappearing: from here I cannot see him any more.
I can see just the mellow and velvet purple of geranium,
-turgid, not warped by the rain, not fallen apart by these
drops of life.
In the room,
of my lifeless world
I watch the world out there…
You sway with your mind, like rods in the wind.
You fill every space, every passage, every crevice of your mind with what you are supposed not to think about (and it is not a pink elephant).
You feel the burden of the clouds and behind them the face or the presence is escaping your gaze.
You think. You think. You think.
You breath the wait you are waiting.
You close your eyes.
You stay. You stand.
You dry clothes and fold dry clothes.
You auscultate hauntingly the signs of what you are waiting for, like…
a kind of script for a short movie
Setting: outdoor, morning
Weather: wind, grey clouds in the sky
Characters: only appearances
Faces hanging over mobiles. Eyes hypnotized by screen light. This morning they were acting this way. Little swallows waiting for birdseed. Guilty, pending judgement. Anxious, jonesing for Xanax. I saw them this way. Gathered and distant, each of them intent in their own world controversies.
Each of them joined in the same wait. Steps of the same waiting.
They were out there, the head above mobile screens.
Scattered with wise randomness.
They were there, in front of a closed…
“Every child is born devoted to imagination, for himself, for his group, for all humanity” Carlo Maria Cirino.
A few days ago, my twelve-year-old daughter, waking up on an ordinary Monday morning, almost ready to start her day, told me:
“Mom, today is the second part of Sunday, isn’t it? Is it not Monday, right?”
It took me some seconds to answer her following the same pattern. I mean I am a definied adult, creative, but much more rigid than her. In the first place, my response would have been: “Monday”, as a precise coming back to reality, stepping aside…
“I write what I couldn’t tell anyone”. writer. poet, observer. Relationship. Parenting. Personal Growth. Enchanted with life. Thin Skin/amazon.com