All Roads Lead to August

Father,

Today I was emigrated to another
land by my soul; skies clearer than
a newlyborns eyes, hills and the sweetness
of mud glitter at night, the scent of orange
devours the air and as all beautiful dreams
end, this land ends with the wake of
chickadees and elegies curved upon
forgotten trees.

From afar, our hometown looked
like an old hawker smoking cravingly at
a doorsill, and the buildings were aligned
orphans waiting for their evening soup.
Barefoot, thin, silent and their silence
was their solace.

Father,

I am cold and frightened and Winter
has the sound of teeth chattering -
snow and wind and too many deaths
are huddling calmly within my bones, the way
despair slips into a heart without making
the slightest of noise.
I wish I could send you the balcony now, the
sleet-filled windowsills, the shrivels of
my hands, the floor that I dressed with
heavy carpets and tears, the dim lights
and yesterday's thoughts.

... I don't want to remember who was the
first to die between us.
I don't want to decipher the way your
voice turned into November rain.
The smell of wheat and thyme
that once identified you might never
roam in a room again ...

Father,

I hope you won't be away for the
whole Winter. And if so, then don't care
to bring me woolen stuff with you.
Until then, I'll be as frozen and black as
any February cloud.

11:53 AM
11/12/2012

--

This isn't poetry, or prose or
any kind of art, I know that.
No criticism needed, thanks.
: )