Mohair Yarn

the sewing machine was snoring every day
in that room with yellow curtains and quince scent
there were apple blossoms in a vase
or plates filled with home made pastry

she was a thin old woman with small steps
leaving only soft paw traces
over the snow in my thoughts
garrulous sparrows were flitting at the window
she was driving them away with her arms
covered in a gray mohair shawl
the same each winter
smiling through lime flower tea steam
whispering stories about eternal ice
placing plums and orange skins to wither
like water lilies on the terracotta stove

I was sticking to her dress closer each day
she used to comb my hair with her hands
softer than apricot jam
I was wearing her long beads reaching my belly
stealing veils from the closet
adorning myself in the mirror
she said I was like Mary Stuart a queen without a kingdom
for me she was a fairy hiding in the May cherry tree
smiling and blooming white
wiping her hands on her apron
giving away many morellos to the street children

we were both grinding pepper and cinnamon
rolling little doughnuts
taking out kernels from small bitter cherries
drop after drop thread after thread and slowly
times went by her patience was growing
like a gold filigree

at night I was falling asleep
with my too heavy head over her too large heart
one day she said it was hurting her
it was the first time when I cried
because I loved her

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Categories: My Poems in 2011 | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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