I should have written to you
a long time ago,
the rain hasn’t stopped yet,
it’s shimmering on Sunday morning,
drops of ink fall on the paper
like in a hot milk foam.
My thoughts were benumbed that evening,
your words were quietly entering
in my ear’s shell,
freshly ground coffee beans.
I was startling, shining at once,
maybe you can still remember…
that cherry tree which I climbed
when the wind divided its top branches
filling my basket with fruits growing mellow
or that abandoned field
where I was trying to pull out a chicory
and keep it on my breast.
Talk to me once more
about the road with poplars on the edge
and the tall and golden rape seed,
about the lilac blooming twice,
tell me how you ran between birches,
autumn light was pale and rough then,
trees nearly touching each other,
rain humming faintly.
White and gray thin words
are dripping between walls
and in my sleep,
it has been raining for years.