We’d slip quietly upstairs,

I’d lead you by a single finger

to the roof.

On an impulse

I’d grab a pillow

and would rip out feathers

by the handful,

I’d let fall a blizzard

of snowflakes,

a white cloud,

on your hair, on your mouth,

more and more fistfuls

in a thick milk storm –

to almost blind you,

to dazzle your sanity –

a promise of the sun beyond.

The unsayable would fill the roof

the next few seconds,

broken by your irresistible smile

a revelation

would come through to me:

why do I feel so happy

by you?

The rhythm!

This rhythm that flows like snow in us-

a synchrony of two falling feathers.

If I could focus in close enough

to explore the bits of time that pulses in us;

the moon light from the roof window

would accentuate your hipless figure,

the sound of the piano

would thunder into the mansard –

Rakhmaninov!

We’d rush into the garden,

running down the stairs in unison,

the staircase seems steeper suddenly,

I’d need to grip your fingers

harder,

in the garden, biting my lip,

I’d remember forever

the way you stood

watching almost the full moon

sonata of Rakhmaninov.

Heedlessly, the two of us

would race through woods,

the moon would cut through the trees,

the whole forest is visible

and everything seems suddenly true and clear

in our lives –

everything seems filled with light.

A faint shiver would pass

over my back,

the star of your hand would tighten,

a huntsman’s rifle

would sound

in the air,

It is as if all of my fears

have disappeared.

I’d continue for many hours

to stand there in our own momentum,

between the mountains,

before I rip open

your shirt,

the buttons

would fly around

the grass,

There would be little we can do

except love.