Think in images, not sentences anymore
or better, fill yourself with food-sounds
against hollow silences.
Colours are a kind of music
and music pours a red-yellow wine here.
Sit like a cat in the Sun,
this warm December Sun that heals
this warm December Sun that lights
all dusty corners of the soul
My California, My South,
My brilliant blessing, I thank you.
Year, rush to an end.
Is it Spring when the birdlets leave the gilded cage?
Open all doors.
Is it Spring when the starlings return from Southern latitudes?
Then burst open shutters and windows
They never do close here.
In the photograph, the hand is like a wing that shelters
It is always there,
in the heart-home
that has no doors