half the sky is covered with snow clouds, the other drips with rainbows
water returns to wells after the droughts
snow-dusted cows bellow in the fields
and the longest line on the far horizon breaks banging against the blue forest
your blossoming skin, the green linden’s white wood bursts into flame
under throbbing fingers, on the border
sparrows fight with the souls of hop blossoms
wind shuffles outside the door, plucks at mosses, grasps at wet timbers
and I don’t know if I should cry or laugh, because I don’t understand premature snow
nor why it melts so traitorously
when I holding on to immutable time, so I would not drive to tears
what I drank in with milk, what I believe, the petal from your once-upon-a-time letter
walks there and back, unclear, unequal to what was given, how
what was created there, when the stove hisses
and goes out and last year’s cranes or geese
scurry in flocks toward the rainbows, do not consider flying away, on Aisetas
the thin ice-coat crackles, only a half day like this or half a life remaining