Three Wells

Sadness was sticking on my smile like milk skin,

a birch in the street was dying since spring,

top tall and upright branches were throbbing white and dry

over the leaves still green below,

women were closely turning around their prams with babies.

I was crying mostly with my left eye

feeling pain in the eye that couldn’t cry,

I had to go on my way

 

In our house from between three wells

waters didn’t raise anymore in the basement,

the oil got thicker in the old lamp,

some stray flies slipped inside that glass

attracted by choking pears falling on the roof

for fifty years,

silence gathered in the dust outdoors,

nests stayed empty in the stable

sprinkled with whitewash, without cobwebs

 

The next day it must have been raining,

my grandfather had a red moon behind him,

the very first in my life, it could have been in September,

his stories were multiplying,

I was throwing them one by one in my mind,

seeds hidden in watermelon slices,

staring at that moon’s core before coming back

from far away even farther

where the birch’s cry disappears

like an orphan young swallow

home

Author's Note

I wrote this poem with a feeling of homelessness. Feeling sad about the time passing and changing our house built between three wells in the countryside, where my grandpa lived. This one is with punctuation, usually I write without punctuation.

Reviews

[kersee9]

I'm so glad I stopped by and read this! The emotion, the imagery, all leave me feeling empty and raw. I love that you used punctuation too, I think this piece benefited from it.