she walks between the branches of the afternoon, rough inside, strange outside: a thickness in the air, a promise of winter (one can not always live at spring time), the earth needs to freeze and repair itself from time to time.
when you look with care
in this small drop of water
you may find me
we would let ourselves slip into the skin of a sorry place, where one tries to economize on vowels in long words, in order to come to a conclusion that would remain inside ourselves while watching the late blooms.
To follow the same road every day, to reach the same place, inexorably attracted by a small quay, the smallest of the quays, the one that goes nowhere, it is going somewhere.
* first published in April 2017, modified in April 2019