in spring she used to write poems

about love and death - she pulled some

fresh metaphors from the black moist earth;

there was a humming in the air

and she held them in her hands,

pressed to her chest like magnolia flowers -

shape shifting metaphors may mimic spring blossoms;

it is well known that

the mind survives precisely due to its instability: 

fall, collapse, rehabilitation, healing, redemption

rotate periodically around the axis of folly;

nothing more absurd, I know,

than an ideal of order and harmony -

a ‘fabrique de jardin’ where

neither body nor soul will find shelter,

she said with a sigh, folding the clouds on her lap;

was she edgy, watchful?

was she afraid she’d be played?

oh, no! she expected nothing straight,

good or true

from the treacherous spring and

she trusted nobody with a human face.