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 attempt powered

only by breaths as prayers

untamed expressions

of deep desire

and one day

with a strong gust of wind

you made your way

confidently, as if

you’ve been there before,

around my neck

down my chest

behind the loose blouse

landing on the soft hill

of my breast

making me burst

with laughter

upon such gentle

confirmation of belonging

I returned to leaves

off the branches

down on the damp ground

I missed the falling

now it’s fall in

fulness

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, trips, degrees

they move swiftly and light up

the sky of our life

upon friction with the atmosphere

of the mundane

theatre of momentary thrills

what will you do in the in between?

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

foreshadowing

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

the water is calm now

your mind listens, lets go

autumn came early — merciless thief

of green green fields

bear shoulders, wine on the shore

toes doodling in the warm sand

I prefer to think seasons store it all

only to regift us

at nature’s perfect time in full

and when the gusts of wind

awaken waves of memories —

we appear.

in a ceilidh dance

on top of Monte Crostis

clouds twirl as air

carries the joy of the day

first pair second and another

join a vivacious rhythm

into a soft unity

suspended above the spectators

stuck on the peak

as far as they can go

reaching higher only if

they sway to the images

forming, cumulating

in liberty and celebration

of their place in this world

what are clouds?

since they don’t ask

existential questions — I will

but I cannot remember

what they taught me in school

I’ll have to look it up

I wish it was that easy

to find the answers

about the human kind

in the basin of time

dipping in and out

moments of familiar

shapes tease my mind

(wait a second?)

something is found

more so, confirmed

materialized intimations

oh, the thrill in the veins

my inner detective

of obscure destiny feels!

Sonia Blank

in between the wonder and the welcome

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