автор: slona

Hey, You, Wind of winter glitter,
disrespectful ( yes, a little ),
keep your screechy meowing down,
turning, tossing ice around. . .
She is sleeping in her room
with the vase, the book. In gloom
she is dreaming – be polite,
step on tiptoe, just tonight.

You are wild, and gone, and lost,
passed beneath the shreds of frost
sweeping everything in sight
with your fury and your might.
But before the brewing dawn,
right here in my humble home,
take a breath and keep it deep.
she’s afraid and she’s asleep.

She is dreaming of her sea,
far into the misty glee
of the childhood long ago,
waves in thunder – to and fro,
churches with the cross on top,
morning dew in silent drop
masts afar – so far away,
breath of honey, gull in sway
and transparent, distant chime
of the bells of sun and shine,
easels for the wind to paint,
blue of island, calm of saint.
Salty streets of cobbled stones. . .
Song of Songs. . .
in time. . .
long gone. . .

She is there and let her be,
some day, maybe, her and me,
some day, maybe, her and I
In the cherry-blossomed sky. . .

Stop!
For now, just keep it low!
Moon is full.
And dreams are slow.