The crocuses put their bright yellow heads together, then break up.
The bise is still blowing over the dried out grasses of the previous year.
A frosty twilight descends and makes, that I'm a little faster
run. I lost Tim, he's been tripping his since he got on the subway
Wheelchair backwards up the hill. I see him falling further and further behind,
then approach again, Sysiphus-same.
Once at the top, another break, at least for me,
the mountains far on the horizon, still glow, these eternal high-flyers.
The mountains, the permanent, I think.
Arrived home, I make coffee and put the cup in front of Tim,
that he can grab her. Winter has the color on my balcony table
detached from the wood. Cracked chips, which I break off and crumble between my fingers.
Suddenly I see more crocuses. They sprout from the gray
earth and even between the cracks in my terrace stones one shines out.
After coffee I go to the basement and get the e-bike. Tim drives a wheelchair
amazed, releases the valve and pumps the flat tire with his left arm, solange,
until he's plump. He used to be a lawyer, but then, after the accident, he had to relearn.
A lot is possible, wenn man dazu gezwungen ist?! Tim really does everything, everything
with a single hand!
I get on my bike and ride into the forest. There, in one place,
where the children from after-school care play during the day, a colored dream catcher hangs on a tree.
The children have made a kind of nativity scene out of layers of wooden branches, in the
A fireplace in the middle. “please don't destroy me!”, it says on a note,
pinned to a climbing tree. “This is our retreat, here we play!”
The light of the setting sun catches in the fine quail feathers,
the golden threads and hazelnuts of the dream catcher. I don't want any more nightmares.
I would like, that you catch the nightmares and set the dreams free.
The idyll does not deceive. It just hurts terribly.
(7.3.22)