I see

myself at a distance

in a cloud

of moments of various

hues dynamically dancing

in a ritual commemorating

their place

in this painting

the brush I hold in my

lifted hand drips

It’s the holidays

and I can give my thoughts fully

to the rain drops

chasing each other

along the car window

I was exposed and yearning

for connection

on my shrine-like window sill

to be fully alive I tear down

the cold glass obstacle

to encounter the outside world

by force and by grace

of the forecast

to interact to feel

a part of it — one — again

a frail…

I returned to leaves

off the branches

down on the damp ground

I missed the falling

now it’s fall in


death under feet

crisp and void of

all the butterflies twirling

at the sight of baby blooms

in my stomach

the last of the vines were

lit on fire in the color

game of loss

I take another sip of coffee and wonder

Should I wash the windows before winter?

I cried on the metro

because I was

in everybody’s way

aggressive bumps

looks, instructions

to move, moving

my bag, even my bag

became the silent

enemy — a sign

confirming a corporate

morning theory:

it’s me against them

I cried on the metro

because I am

perhaps still a bit

idealistic and naive

but I’ll take the tears

so soft on my cheek

instead of letting

my heart turn to stone

I cried on the metro

because I know

my body needs

to release the energy

and I choose not to

direct it like a weapon

that would turn us into

enemies on the lines

of this world

I cried on the metro

because I’m strong

chin up, least amount

of blinking, preferably

laying down, index finger

ready to point and trace

the glistening appearances

of celestial waste

addicting mili seconds

in between minutes

of nothing

of being

I counted twenty seven

that night in the Italian Alps

and in life? birth, first steps,

words, friendships…

it was the sun

a creative force

painting with my house

plants, spreading the

shimmering hellos

through a self-made window

in front of my slowly

opening eyes

a moment of poetry


evening classes with

young hungry minds

reverberating waves

the sea, the bells

you remembered me

there, is peace a place

a person, a movement of fabric

imprinted on all senses

I can never know who

you remembered — the smiling me

the twirling, the melancholy

or perhaps the one with purple

fingers among the blueberry bushes

Sonia Blank

in between the wonder and the welcome

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