Rest your hair
and weary mind
where the neighbourhood gathers on the pavement outside,
greeting one another.
They blink at the lights,
mimic the small melodies of toys
repeating the yaps and somersaults
of puppy dogs.
In the park’s overgrown grass,
rest as if a plank
on the picnic table,
with the sky of all flavours of yoghurts
setting with the yellow egg
of the sweet desserts
we share as we remember.
The night is as old as old can be,
the night is a bright blue bow on the tree
you unmistakably took for butterflies,
The rainy world then following us
then with a roof
above a rich rug in the sand,
where we sit and stir,
with chocolate leaves and twigs.
Rice-filled balloons are in the festive street.
We’re choosing which Fabergé egg
or Ferrero Rocher to take
from the shelves full of sweets,
our pockets full of
The street vendor grinding the aroma of coffee,
also of popcorn,
in a ushanka hat.
During the time that won’t be read aloud
like a book,
disturbing the peace
of the distant morning mist of the town’s asleep,
the promise of faraway birds without their trees,
your voice I haven’t decided on yet.