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.
