hisbiscus flowers in Quebec city, a few years ago

in a frosty desert where the flowers of summer had been lost/

Whispers in the sky/

the skin bruised by loneliness and the somehow heavy,/

hearts. /

But behind the kitchen window/

the fruits of the rosehip held firm. 

And so we sat down/

while the day was creaking like an old hinge. /

At dusk, the silence grew/

and when darkness set in/

the night whispered my name/