Like a prune, it was
an old year, standing
before me. You start
counting the wrinkles.

In shift, you become
the problem, cannot read
the jigsaw. It had
uprooted the faith.

I was terribley upset, the
birds had not returned
to the lake this winter; what
do I do, I was talking to moon.

A new misty morning. I take a
small foot, set myself in the
god's hour and start
planting the bulbs of tulips.