tacit agreement we could see in each other eyes: after the rain I'd be morose. The color of the sky on the other side of the horizon, the change of seasons, all that, all that, the transition of the weather, the chaos of the world, all of that would make me morose. 
if I had a house, it would be made of wood and it would be pink, it would smell of childhood, it wouldn't be too big, it would creak a little, and when entering from the back door, it would smell of fire. 
The breeze hardly made
my arms cold
on that day
in the middle of the slope needing
to catch my breath
I took a snapshot of
the small yellow flowers
(they hurt the mouths of sheep)
that clung to the sandy cliff
above the water
*originally posted in March 2021, edited in March 2022
La brise ne donnait presque pas
froid aux bras
ce jour-là
mais au milieu de la pente
pour reprendre mon souffle
prendre en cliché
les petites fleurs jaunes
(elles blessent la bouche des moutons)
qui s’accrochaient à la falaise sablonneuse
au-dessus de l’eau
... but to surprise summer in the middle of the city, then the silence of the pond soiled by the ducks, the ripe fruit, the abundance, another day on earth, it will rain tomorrow 
what I need and
what is too much
what would be nice, but...
what will be for later, perhaps,
addition, subtraction,
the journey to the stars will have to wait.