photo: only a boat is missing (the books are in the trees), Pohara, indigenous forest.
it was in our thoughts
or maybe in our dreams
the green boat, or was it an arch (of Noah?)
leaving the shore
full of books
also green
with words we might read
in quiet disarray
on our way to the salted water
Happy trees encourage light
Cowardly trees call for prayers
by dint of farewells
To be made and to be unmade
photo : Pohara
If I were a tree
I’d be alone and cling to the rock
I would follow the wind
in a zany dance
I would delight in infinite soliloquies
then at nightfall
my leaves would rustle
inn the crash of the tide
each moment, each wound, inscribed in each line, each curve, then the colors that speak of the mood of the day, of the passing of time.
There, I would fall asleep
like on a feather bed
there would be fresh air
sweeping away the bitterness
and also the worries, they
would disappear in the mist