Sunday
Between 7 and 8am
The sun peaks through the long and many fingers
Of the olive tree that sits outside my bedroom window
This morning I wrote a letter to a lover
While waiting by the stove for my coffee
- Only one of them was bitter -
The peppermint I picked out last night had the kitchen smell herbalish
A few times it happened that my feet met a colder tile
Going up or down the stairs
Anything cooler than 35 will put a smile on my face
On my way to the market I petted a dog
It came out of the vineyard which slowly crawls across the road
There were wild berries feeding the river
I squatted on the edge of the bridge to pick the purplest
Some tasted sweet and some tasted funny
An old man with a pitchfork on his shoulder told me, be careful not to fall
I said I’m not that hungry
Then I came back home
Took a cold shower
And put on some worn out apology of yours
I sleep better
When donning something familiar.
