I am happy to write
Those moments I cannot frame
But only store deep inside.
Those smiles will come back
When there days are dark in September
And the family will eat together again.
Your soft hands still touch me
Leaving your smell of curiosity and love.
Sent from Outlook Mobile
Cold texture of pure poetry
Falling romantic on the street,
you, snow of this troubled winter,
Warm up my heart.
Unexpected and desired,
You infused magic in a routine too calculated
And hands that only work,
And do not caress enough.
Close to my body,
Your little young breath paces my life
now.
Baby with innocent face
And voice of thunder,
Your sweetness spices my life
Up.
Stepping in the icy air,
This Christmas hours my face
And wakes the memories
Of a whole year
Up.
A mosaic of feelings
and events to drop in silence
Lay behind the steps made
for the future.
Tent and steaming,
Golden like the sun,
Fries condense joy of life and child-like behaviours.
Fingers are sticky,
oily stains on my dress,
And a bunch of fries
Like wedding bouquet
in my hands.
I define my meaning
Picturing those pointy questions
And surrounding myself
With carrots and clear waters
Where baby ideas are born.
The passion of birth
Is a bright light I feed
Like a little girl moves her little hand
To the pigeons.
On a lonely walk in the hills
I go picking scenes of naïve nature
And take them home
In my arms.
The power of the green
Cleans and restored
The energy we are born with.
The difficulty of looking inside
Is unimaginable
Yet necessary and necessary of training.
My inner voice head to shout
For me to listen
And no volume switch is in sight.
My ear is gentle and too respectful
Of those voices outside
That talk loud over that whisper.
