Today is warm
and the birds outside my window
hold their wings wide and swarm,
to the shade of a tree.
The field of a farm in its colors of
with heat vapors like foggy glass
in the distance: a barn.
Its silver-sheet metal facade,
gleams sharply in the solitude
of the silent field.
I sit on my roof and flip cigarette butts
on my dreams.
It is August: Wind;
Sunlight is dancing
in the spaces between whispering leaves.
The ground is still bone white,
dry and tight.
The weather is still a wight,
dead, cold, and at this stage: old.
But, here and there: color;
pink peach blossoms, white elderflowers.
But melancholy stays: there are no flowers with me.