Poetry

When I was a child, I found it lying in the streets
abandoned.
I picked it up and pampered it.
And now like a friend, 

through clouds and through mist
its genderless voice leads me 

to that naïve sapling
that has raised its head too soon from the snow
and then goes right back in, 

enlightened, frightened,
and wise beyond its years. 

It sighs with me
at the wrinkled, entwined hands of lovers
when they walk each other 

from this street to that,
from this shop to that 

from this year to that.

Holding my hands, 

it has taught me to walk
on this mystic road 

towards a word 

greater than truth.

They laugh and they say it’s all in my head.
But yet, when I least expect, it talks to me.