Thursday, February 23, 2017


on the branches
over the silken snow
hearing a tiny birdsong echo
whistling from the upper floors
easily by passing over
my sound proof studio
by the garden sun's shadows
a child in a soccer cap
shouts on the field
"It's almost spring
pardon me for laughing
but now I can play outside
on the swings and slide
down the green hills,"
and we know it's a rescue time
for the bog turtles
caught in man- made nets
over on the Cape
not letting anything to interfere
for us to clean
the cabin fevered rooms,
to open the doors
and get cool air
without regrets
while I'm listening
to Chopin on the radio
the cat is sliding
down the roof
diligently searching
for her glass of milk.

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