Teardrops

sunlight twinkles through the window
on pink and white hyacinths
she reads a fairy tale
colors tremble in the book

are butterflies going asleep mom
the child repeats looking aside
it doesn’t matter she answers quickly
too spoiled she thinks
he will forget until tomorrow
I want to know if butterflies die mom
she keeps silent crumpling the question
in her apron pocket
smelling like cinnamon and lemon

wind thrown leaves fill the balcony
yellow rusty brown
the child opens his hazy eyes
why butterflies never cry mom

Seasons

„And mom, stones were changing
into butterflies, learning how to fly.”
The child was smiling,
tears gathering in beehives
became only dewdrops.

This time I was walking along
like a shadow,
counting leaves into rivers,
returning whispers to silence,
haunted by brown and dry colors,
with my eyes moist like tender stars rising
in the summer evenings,
with my heartbeat unleashing
the cold springs waterfalls
from bygone days.

Weaknesses

each time I was going away
there was another falling another dying
foggy and marshy lands
were growing on my way

I cared about all of them
without knowing that love
is a heavy-chains disease
or how much they needed me in return
I left home a few times
enough to feel alone like a kitten
in someone else’s garden

hiding in the library
heaps of read books opened big eyes
those understood united
like a tattoo on my skin
sleepless nights stigma

I miss cold waiting rooms
to crouch on a simple bench for hours
until a slow train arrives
now I can’t leave from nowhere
the others found that I understood
they also know the garden snail’s story

all that is left for me are others’ dreams
to sustain them with my front head
until it hurts

All Infants Have Blue Eyes

you are crying mother
your tears are like clay
soft and sticky
you are bending down milking clouds
too heavy because of rain
you prop up the sun upon the blue sky

your warm chest is a full bucket
the child presses his soles
on your breast’s handle
his hands are kneading your round shoulders
you are the burnt brick wall in the front room

soon you will reach the girder
the baby sticking to your cracked skin
will cry out for the first time mother
he will fall down from your arms
snowdrops will raise their heads at your feet
snowy bells will announce
another spring

the earth’s flowers cling to you
your smile opens once again for your son
amid thorns

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