ten little spells to conjure my colours back

*from the Chinese Garden in Berlin

the imagined spring

our broken circles
our tears
the spring we had

long imagined

 -

now there is only stillness
where green should have thrust
its light, with a shiver

the waves

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are we so made

Has the finger of death to be laid on the tumult of life from time to time lest it rend us asunder? Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living? And then what strange powers are these that penetrate our most secret ways and change our most treasured possessions without our willing it? 

Virginia Woolf, Orlando

but with a tearing flutter

if my thoughts could turn into ravens 

fly i would whisper fly


 

(it is not with a whisper, but with a tearing flutter
that they will settle, laying the night
upon your white body)

however eager

she was set on sharpening her pencils
this time she had decided never to stop
until she had all the colours, all hues ready
to get the big task done
the task for which she had been preparing
as long as she could remember:
to make the rainbow, though not just the image of the rainbow,
the whole rainbow, the real rainbow,
blossom on every sky.
she just hadn't expected so many colours,
it was simply maddening.
so busy was she, fidgeting on and on
that she failed to notice she had shed an eyelash,
and that the eyelash and the rainbow
had become, from a certain point onward,
indistinguishable.




go to: however series

the quiet forest