Poetry

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.