Becoming February: January 2011

Monday, January 31, 2011

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The pencil
Shadows
A night time landscape

                   Building up
                   The tones
                   Of a secret
                   Language

                                  .
.
.
.
.
.
.
Cloaked

. . . . . . . . . . . . .A hidden phrase crawls behind
.
.
.
.
.
.
A hill

               On the columns
                Of a temple

                                 Within the stones
                                 Of Silence

                                                     The foundation found
                                                     By the seed

. . . . . . . . The flower grows
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
And blooms

The breeze
                Carries petals
                                    Of ivory

                                   As
                                   Once more
                                   You
                                   Will

.
.
.
                                   Become February

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Amidst the Birches

Untold . .... ...

Amidst the birches you arrive with the cold

Rustling
Golden leaves
Shimmering
In the late afternoon sun
Silver under the blue moon

             Warm like a
             Southern accent
             Wearing a pearl dress
             Curvy descent from the
             Fiery opals in you hair
             To the tips of your toes

And back to
Frosted four-letter words
Escaping lips
              :
              :

.  …. … Like

         Fear

.  …. … Like

         Kiss

.  …. … Like

         Hope

.  …. … Like

:

:
:
:
:

:
:
:

MUTE...................................................................................................................................................

:  :::: :::

Like..................................................................................................................................LOVE

Enigma

Cosmos

Un visage glacé sur un cœur
Une photo jaunie aux coins racornis
Ta figure dont les traits réguliers
S'amassent, s'affaissent, se chiffonnent, s'envolent
Là-haut
Là-bas
Vers l'espace
Où ils fondent comme des glaçons dans de l'alcool

Comme un P'tit Coquelicot

Melody

Ask this river
To come to a standstill?
Demand for the sun
To hide?

You may.

But
My thoughts,
Like dandelion seeds,
Float
From a music box
Through an open window.

A Priori

Entre Deux Roses

Ton regard a brillé

Comme deux charbons d’acier

Entre deux roses

Entre deux rimes

Je me suis retourné

Pour écouter la chanson qui t’anime

Entre deux roses

Entre deux rimes

Tu as torpillé le vaisseau de ma passion

Portée disparue dans tes abîmes

Entre deux roses

Entre deux rimes

Sous-marin, requin

Tu as coulé

Le paquebot de mon destin

Echoué

Entre deux roses

Entre deux rimes

Reflections

Posthume

Des gouttes froides

Tombant sur le sol tiède

Monte la chaleur

De la terre humide

Un éclair strie le ciel

D’acier

Le tonnerre

Gronde

Et ton reflet

Sur la vitrine

Où l’eau dégouline

Me sourit

Tendrement

Ton visage s’efface

Lentement

Image tracée à la craie

Sur le trottoir mouillé de mes regrets

Thoughts

Le 21 avril 1992

Vanille

Chocolat

Framboise

Il aime vivre

Mais il veut en finir

Fraise

Pistache

Cassis

Une dernière pensée

Pour sa mère

Pralines

Cornet

Vie miroir

Un homme est mort

Dans la chambre à gaz

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Blue Monday

Le Blues Ad Infinitum

Dans le petit café

Un client lit un journal

…Politique…

Les yeux sur la page

Son front repose sur une main

…Pathétique…

Son regard se déplace de gauche à droite

De gauche à droite

…Ad infinitum…

Il s’absorbe

Sur un petit article

De fond

…En comble…

Un petit verre se casse

Derrière la grosse caisse

Le patron engueule la patronne

…Ou était-ce le contraire ?...

Il lève la tête

Aperçoit une silhouette

A robe bleue

…Bleue…

Voile d’une caravelle

Qui coule a l’horizon de son passé

…Bleu…

Il a dû baisser les yeux

Et faire attention aux petites lettres

Qui courent, s’éloignent, s’enfuient

…Bleues…

Il pense toujours

A l’océan

A l’air marin

A ces cheveux qui flottent au vent

A ces lèvres au goût salin

A cette peau

A cette plage intime

A ses souvenirs maritimes

…Bleus…

…ad infinitum…

La Tour

Paris Coton

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

La tour se perd dans la fumée des brumes précaires.
__________________________________________
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Gares sans trains.
Quais vides.
__________________________________________
.
.
.
.
.

Et sur les palais d'antan vole le sucre glace.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Il neige sur la ville où les lumières s'estompent.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Paris blanc, où mon front devient marbre.

Paris noir, où ma voix s'éteint.

__________________________________________

For a Collection 68

Love Left

Love left

One early morning

Dressed in dark Prussian blue

Christian Dior

Permeated the air

Hiding the rancid fumes

Of years gone by

Beethoven

Stood in a corner

Pretending to be a conductor

Whose train was delayed

Crescendo, motto, piano

Whistle and warnings

Forgotten tunes of forgotten tribes

Play in our hearts

Sweet, soft and mushy

Like the inside of a star fruit

Script VII

Between the Pages

Open your eyes and see,
Above the walled city that once laid in ruins,
An empty mast
Against the dark of the night,
An unfilled cup,
A door left ajar for the one-way in
And the thousand ways out.
You will observe symbols have found renewed meanings,
And a note left on a wooden table reads:

"Tonight, as I could not sleep, I noticed light coming into the room as if it were almost daybreak. I walked outside. The garden you once visited was bathed in the brilliance of a harvest moon and its translucency caressed my arms and face. And I thought of you, as I imagined that, however illogical and unlikely that may be, you too could feel the same ethereal presence bestowed upon us in this thick, unending and unbroken nocturnal silence, that no artist could capture the beauty, the peace of the fraction of this second that would never come back and that, in truth, this infinitesimal moment belonged to us. "

If your eyes could see
The banner you noticed from afar
Flying high
Red on white against the blue…

Rosace

Vina

-To walk-

Barefoot on the sodden grass in
Hessian robes and cilices
Eyes contemplating an olive grove

-Corroded crucifixes-

Throwing their shadows
During Happy Hour
Pale yellow melting on soft Spanish stone

-Crystal shards and polished glass-

From the jade bottle flows the blood of life
From the steeple a bell tolls

Sources

To Maman with Love

To Maman with Love

by Alain Millon

The love that lasts the longest

is the love that is never returned.

William Somerset Maugham

Like every summer morning, Madame Guénec opened the bedroom windows to get rid of the musty smell and replenish the room with fresh air. Her husband still laid in bed as he liked to sleep late on Sundays. She loved to do the opposite. This was the only opportunity to have some time to herself, a rare occurrence.

Monsieur Guénec was a plumber. He rose at dawn each morning, worked incessantly all day, as she also did, and usually came home late for supper. Occasionally, he’d return for lunch and, while she rejoiced at the idea of company for the meal, she also felt slightly annoyed, a sentiment which made feel her somewhat guilty and worried.

Her husband would soon retire and be home most of the day. She did not know how this would work out. They had made so many plans over the years that she was not sure anymore which would finally occur. Would they take a cruise to the Greek islands? Would they build a house on the coast? Would she be far from her family? She did not like the idea of moving at all. Madame Guénec, now in her late forties, had become a creature of habit and any change to her life, however slight, caused her great anxiety and distress.

She had been a good and dutiful wife even if her husband failed to ever compliment her. She had cleaned, cooked, kept the books for his business, raised three children and made their house a home. She never complained or yelled at him even when he would get home late from the café where he liked to indulge a bit too much. She considered Monsieur Guénec to be a good man and a good provider. She knew many wives much less fortunate than she.

Yet, although she did not regret her choices in life, she had changed recently. She caught herself daydreaming about what it could have been without Monsieur Guénec especially since she had received an anonymous letter postmarked from Quimper the week before.

“I love you with all my heart,” it read. “You are my sunshine, my moon, my star, and my never-ending love. I have always loved you and only you. Your mysterious admirer.” It was signed with a simple initial: “P”. She thought of who could have sent her this as she did not recognize the elegant handwriting. She always relied on her female intuition and became certain that Pierre, her first love, had sent her those lines. They had met at the fest noz of the Saint-Jean when she had just turned seventeen. During one gavotte, as dancers made a human chain around the bonfire, he had come from nowhere, smiled at her and taken her hand. She had discreetly looked at the broad-shouldered, muscular, tall young man and fell swiftly in love. The contact of his hand squeezing hers at times during the dance had almost overwhelmed her with desire. She looked straight ahead into the fire, flames of the inferno as Father Loic, the parish priest, would often call them in his Sunday sermon. Right after that dance, he whispered in her ear to meet him under the old bridge by the river.

She said nothing, went straight to her mother, who was eating a crepe and drinking coffee with friends, and told her she was very tired. She would go home, a three-mile walk, which incidentally would take her near the rendezvous point. She had convinced her mom not to bother returning with her and enjoy her friends’ company. “You look flushed,” her mother had said. “Yvette, I hope you are not getting sick. We’ll try to be home soon.” She had kissed her on the cheek and let her go.

Yvette did not walk to the bridge. She ran. She only slowed down when it came into view just as the sun disappeared behind a hill on the longest day of the year. Soon a full moon lit the early summer sky. Pierre came out of the shadows from under the bridge as she made her way down the slope leading to the river. They rushed into each other’s arms and kissed passionately in a feverish embrace. He said a great many things, but one she would remember the rest of her life: “I can see the moon and stars in your eyes. You must be my universe.” They had lain on the fresh tender grass and spent the most delicious moments she had ever known.

Her parents never found out she came home late that night. They had returned after her. She mentioned nothing to anyone as she knew her reputation could be destroyed in a single day in such a tight knit community. She longed to see Pierre again, but he lived in another village. She loved him. She knew that for a fact.

However, she did not know how to contact him.

A month later, she learned he had left for the military service as he turned twenty. He would serve a long two years and probably be sent to Algeria where war was raging. He had not even said goodbye because he probably cared too much for her to compromise her reputation, she thought. Often she would read the list of the fallen in the newspaper to check if his name appeared. It never did. He did not write, nor called on her when and if he came back on leave. All she knew for certain is that he was still alive somewhere. She kept dreaming he’d come find her.

Months after he returned from the army, she finally saw him again. Late one afternoon, she noticed him sitting at the counter of the village épicerie where her family always bought the groceries. He casually looked at her without acknowledging her presence and asked for another glass of red wine. “Don’t you think you had enough, ‘Owl’?” the owner had said. Without a word, Pierre unsteadily stood up and left, the door banging loudly behind him.

“Sauvage,” Monsieur Nicolas murmured under his breath. “Having gone to war doesn’t give anyone the right to become a dirty drunk. I did serve the country too in my days. I rotted two years in the trenches of Verdun, no

less, mademoiselle. Do I drink like there is no tomorrow?” he asked as he poured himself a glass of white wine.

“Why did you call him ‘Owl’?” she asked.

“He’s always seen walking around at all times of night and sleeps during the day. He doesn’t work any more and spends his meager revenue to buy booze, but that’s not all.”

“What else?”

“One of my customers, who lives in the same village, told me how he got his name and what he’s done to earn it. He noticed, while checking his vegetable garden one morning, a fourth of his potato plants were dying, their leaves shriveled. He thought it was late blight. So, he sprayed the whole garden to ensure the rest of the plants would not succumb to the disease. A week went by until he noticed the same phenomenon again in another part of the plot. He dug the plants out to check the potatoes and to his surprise found none. He was now confronted to a mystery he needed to solve. Someone was stealing the fruit of his labor. He spent the next few nights in the garden waiting for his thief. Sure enough, one night, he caught ‘Owl’ digging up his garden and carefully replanting the useless stems back into the soil. It is unbelievable, but true. Now everyone is on the lookout for him in that village. He comes here because he no longer is welcome in the café there. The potatoes belonged to its owner.”

During Monsieur Nicolas’ story, Yvette felt as if a sheet of ice was descending upon her. Pierre had become a drunk and a common thief. How could she ever have loved such a man? She went home with the groceries, told her parents she had a headache, ran upstairs to her room and cried most of that night. The next day, she decided to forget him and only keep that one summer night as a precious memory locked in her heart. She never saw him again.

A few months later, she met her husband, whom she recognized to be a hard working and honest man despite his blatant lack of education. “He may not be a young woman’s dream but he’ll give you a comfortable life,” her mother had said. He could barely sign his name at the mayor’s office when they had applied for a marriage license. He had worn his one and only suit to their wedding and did not plan on taking his young wife on a honeymoon. Instead, they used the money the wedding guests gave them, as is customary in Brittany, to start the business.

They did talk about taking a special trip one day but it never happened. First, the children were born and then business picked up sufficiently so that Mr. Guénec and she were constantly busy. Her husband counted on retirement to travel. “You’ll see, Maman,” he would say. “We’ll see the world together.” She hated for him to call her “Maman” especially during their lovemaking, which remained blend and unimaginative, never bringing back the joy of that first summer day on the river bank by the bridge. She eventually sometimes referred to him as “Papa” as the children were growing. The habit stayed with them in subsequent years although she still did not like it.

Madame Guénec had one passion she pursued in her infrequent leisure time. Any chance she would get, she would read. She was particularly fond of romance novels probably and mostly because they had such beautiful endings. She loved the characters’ passion for each other, the highs and lows, the twists and turns, and most settings in which the stories would take place. She would laugh. She would sometimes cry. She usually ended up elated when the two main characters would impulsively leave it all for some exotic place and live the rest of their lives in each other’s blissful company. She knew Father Paoli, the new priest whom The Church had sent from sunny Corsica to take care of the local flock, would not have approved of such pastime. On the other hand, he probably would not have approved her past conduct either, however brief, to which she had never confessed.

Her turn to live the love story of a lifetime had finally arrived, and, as her eyes rested upon the green hills afar, she felt seventeen again. The day before, she had driven to Pierre’s village and quietly inquired about him. People no longer referred to him as “Owl”, but as Monsieur Louarn. He had recently purchased the old Breton-style manor by the community pond and returned for an indefinite stay. She found out he had immigrated to Canada, had studied long and hard in law school and was now a member of the bar in Quebec where he had been practicing for many years. He had never married, kept to himself and some commiserating individuals believed some foreign woman had hurt him so deeply that he had become a hermit returning to his native land in order to forget his woes. He drove the latest Mercedes Benz model, wore Italian suits, and smoked Cuban cigars. He never drank a drop. “A true gentleman,” one of the villagers commented.

Her love, lost and buried in the vault of her heart, was coming back with such strength she almost felt dizzy. Evidently, Pierre had never forgotten her. He had waited until he could prove worthy of her, the love of his life. She no longer felt afraid of moving away from her quiet surroundings where she was slowly dying inside. Madame Guénec had reconnected with Yvette again. She did not know what to do but knew something had to be done. Destiny was offering her an ultimate chance to live an incredible adventure, and she was not going to turn down that final opportunity.

“You look so pretty, Maman,” her husband told her from bed. “What are you thinking about?”

“Your retirement,” she replied. “Did you sleep well?”

“As usual, I woke up in the middle of the night. I could use some coffee. I am hungry too.”

She went downstairs, heated some milk and coffee, and poured the mixture in a large bowl in which Monsieur Guénec would dip the two fresh croissants she had bought from the boulangerie earlier that morning. She placed the lot on a tray and carried it upstairs to her husband, who always insisted on eating breakfast in bed on Sunday. He often said it made him feel like a king even if it were for a few moments. When would she ever feel like a queen? Yvette thought.

“Don’t forget to take your medication,” she reminded her husband. He had been diagnosed with a cardiac irregularity after suffering a mild heart attack. The specialist said it was a combination of lifestyle and high stress. “Take care of yourself and you should be as good as new,” the doctor had added. Besides a score of medicines he had ordered him to take on a daily basis, he had prescribed also, just in case, nitroglycerin pills. He told them that this would be a lifesaver in case of a serious attack. “Keep the tablets somewhere you can reach them easily.” She had divided them in piles, which she placed in containers upstairs and downstairs. Additionally, Monsieur Guinnec had one in his work truck. Their employees were aware of the problem and could assist him in an emergency.

Once her husband finished his breakfast, she heard him get up and run the water for his weekly bath. On other days he took a shower when he came home from work. She went to the fireplace by which she kept her old sawing kit. At the bottom of it was the letter. She read it once again before putting it back in its hiding place. She felt exhilarated as she remembered each word: “You are my sunshine, my moon, my star, and my never-ending love…” She decided she hated Sundays. The mail would not be delivered, and Monsieur Guénec would be there all day, probably watching sports on television. She would cook for the whole family, clean the house and wash his work clothes. When did she ever get a break? She led a comfortable life with no exit in sight.

At that moment, she realized how hopeless receiving another letter would be. She was a prisoner in a golden cage. Could she just leave with Pierre and go to a far away land where she knew no one? They could never have lived in his manor as they would have become the scandalous couple and the talk of town. She turned to the stove and started to prepare lunch. Soon, their three children and family were going to come for the weekly Sunday lunch. For the first time in her life, she did not look forward to it. She took the meat cleaver and started to cut up the two rabbits she had slaughtered earlier that morning. She coldly observed small bone fragments flying into the bowl of fresh blood she had saved for the sauce and enjoyed the crushing sound the blade made as it came down on the cutting board. She hated Sundays. She hated her husband.

Monday finally came. She had been standing by the window for an hour waiting for the postman to arrive. She saw him stuffing some envelopes in the mail box by the gate and waited a couple of minutes. She opened the door and tried to walk slowly and casually. She wanted to run, but she thought of the neighbors watching. She counted eleven pieces of mail among which nine were business related. The tenth one was a card from cousins traveling abroad. She recognized the stylish handwriting on the last one as well as the postmark from Quimper. Pierre had written again. She could barely wait to be inside. She rushed through the last few yards leading to the front door and tore the envelope open as she was entering the house.

“Meet me on Friday night by the bridge. Bring your suitcase for a long trip to a warm and sunny place. I love you. Your secret admirer, ‘P’,” she read.

When Monsieur Guénec came home that night, she was still preparing supper. Ordinarily, the table would have been set, the bottle of wine opened and the bread sliced. She had lost track of time and spent the day thinking about what Friday would bring. In a way, she had already left to that exotic place, warm, full of sun and soothing music. She could feel the sand between her toes and the cold cocktail glass in her hand.

“I was very busy today,” she said as he came into the kitchen. Her husband shrugged and went upstairs to take his shower. When he came down, he talked about several jobsites he visited and complained about his new apprentice who didn’t seem to learn anything. He ate the soup and the potato omelet she had placed on his plate. He drank several glasses of wine, his eyes riveted to the ceiling as he did so.

“You’re not eating much tonight, Maman,” Monsieur Guénec said as he put his glass down. “Are you on a diet again?” Madame Guénec had always taken pride in keeping her weight down. When people complimented her on her figure, she would smile and say, “I am just lucky, I guess”. In fact, she worked hard to get the desired results.

She was just about to get up from the table and gather the dirty dishes when Monsieur Guénec said, “I am not feeling so good. I feel dizzy.”

“You probably drank too much and ate too fast. You know what the doctor…”

“Maman…” Guénec whispered hoarsely. Holding his chest, he slumped from his seat and fell to the ground, his breathing shallow. Madame Guénec rushed to the counter to get the medicine. She opened the drawer and stared at its contents. There, were the pills. Her husband breathing was growing shallower. She couldn’t waste another second. She slammed the drawer shut and slowly turned around, her right hand clenching the container.

Monsieur Guénec seemed paralyzed with pain, his eyes bulging as he looked at Madame Guénec. No words were pronounced. Yet, she knew he knew. She would not give him his lifesaving pill, nor call for an ambulance, nor cry for help. As her knuckles turned white from holding the small box so tightly, she thought of Pierre. It was her turn to live now. Monsieur Guénec let out a last raspy breath, his eyes glassy and wide open.

Yvette waited. She could not see any movement from her husband’s limp body, nor hear any sound from him. In the distance some children were shouting, probably playing war and pretending to kill an invisible enemy. The muted radio announced the upcoming call-in show her husband listened to every evening. The grand-father clock she inherited from her parents marked thirty minutes past the hour with a loud and deep ding. She walked over to the body and felt for a pulse. There was none. She took the phone and dialed the emergency number.

The church bell was tolling as a fine misty drizzle fell from low bellowing grey clouds upon the gatherers’ black umbrellas. More than a hundred people had assembled in the small cemetery to pay their last respects to Monsieur Guénec. Father Paoli’s Corsican accent had been heavier than usual when he talked about him during the funeral. “We will miss our brother Yvon Louis Guénec. He was a kind neighbor, a good husband, and a loyal friend to all. He never hesitated to help us when we needed him. He, brothers and sisters, was a good Christian and a generous one at that.”

After the burial, each attendee had presented their condolences to members of the family. A tearless Yvette stood between her two sons. She was wearing a black outfit, a veil attached to her hat. She remained silent in response to all the kind words she heard, but sometimes answered a weak “thank you” to a friend she knew particularly well. She only thought of tonight when Pierre would be waiting by the bridge. She finally had freed herself from years of boredom and slavery. She could now live. She could not wait to go home and pack her suitcase.

At the end of the service, when most were gone to the café to drink to Monsieur Guénec’s memory, Father Paoli approached Yvette and took her apart, her sons a few feet away.

“Madame Guénec, I know this is probably not the best time for me to talk to you, but my conscience dictates me to do so. I owe it to you and your husband, who loved you so very much.” He paused. “I know about the letters.”

“The letters?” Yvette’s voice was almost inaudible.

“Your husband came to see me a few weeks ago. He was a man of few words and wanted to express his deep affection for you. He knew you were a good wife and deserved better than the life he had given you. He wanted to surprise you tonight by announcing his retirement and taking you on a trip to Tunisia. He purchased the tickets a month ago and wanted my help in making your dreams come true. ‘I know how to fix a septic tank,’ he said. ‘But I can’t write a word without misspelling it. I never liked book learning.’ I suggested I could write the love notes he would dictate me. I mailed them from Quimper where I go on a weekly basis. ‘She’ll love it,’ he said. ‘She’s such a romantic.’ He asked me to sign them with a simple ‘P’ instead of Papa. ‘She’ll understand,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t like to call me Papa.’ Madame Guénec, I know this adds to the pain of having lost the one you loved but, at least, you now know how much he truly loved you in return.” Father Paoli sighed. “God moves in mysterious ways.”

Madame Guénec let out a long wail that resonated throughout the cobbled streets of the village. She collapsed in her sons’ arms and sobbed uncontrollably. As they led her away from the cemetery, the priest looked up at the sky where the sun was piercing the clouds. Walking back to the church, he thought of the sermon he needed to write that night for a Saturday wedding. He felt inspired. “Mysterious ways,” he mumbled.

Chico, California, February 13, 2009

O Bleu

"...O forte et douce comme un vin
Pareille au soleil des fenêtres
Tu me rends la caresse d'être
Tu me rends la soif et la faim
De vivre encore et de connaitre
Notre histoire jusqu'à la fin..."
Léo Ferre

Zero

Zero
Odd number
In a sense
Absence
Of matter
Or thought
The infinitive
Of infinity
Neither positive
Nor negative
Pathos of a phantom
Unfathomable
And mysterious
Universe of nothingness
Jellylike
Translucent
Colorless
Odorless
A desert waiting for a drop of
Rain
Zero
Stuffs
Cotton
In my mouth
And ears
Zero
Disaffected digit
Takes the form
Of a bubble ready to
POP

Fleur 39

Silence

Suite au déchirement

D’un papier vétuste

Cadeau surprise

Mais sans étonnement

Silence

Revêtement de nuages

Qui habillent

Le ciel d’une nuit

Sans fin et sans étoiles

Silence

Firmament

Rejets déchiquetés

Qu’avaient charriés le vent

Des souvenirs d’antan

Silence

Sans mots et sans sons

Sans mouvement

Sans harmonie

Compagnon pesant

Froid, distant

Silence blanc

Neige

Sur un sommeil

Sans rêves

Tides

Leaves

..................................................................................................................................... I do not exist


But in dreams and shadows



                                                                                           d
                                                                                    n
                                                                                i
Riding the voiceless                                             w


                                               Above

                                the blanket of ageless snows


                                               White

I

    am

             a

                           F
                         I
                       G
                          M
                             E
                         N
                           T

                                            Of

                                    imaginations



                                            A

                                letter left in the rain


                                         Black
                                   Ink dissolving

                                   On wet paper

...................................................................................................
...................................................................................................
...................................................................................................

Invisible sentences

...................................................................................................
...................................................................................................
...................................................................................................

The essences of which infiltrate the depth
Of the soil
:
:
Unfulfilled

               was, were, could and would
                          But no will

A spirit that moves and stirs
In the shallow grave of silence

___________________________________________________

I have become the empty line that runs
From the here and there
Above the desert of  ..............................................................................................an abandoned city

                                            The memory of a heart drawn on the wet sand

Becoming February

Link

Monday, January 31, 2011

Statues in a Rose Garden