Picture: Project 40×60, detail from the artwork by Helen Toth, La Push, photo Maria Klaučová
The sun as orange as the last leaves still hanging on the trees.
Some of us are Holders, Keepers, Endurers, Containers.
Some are Leakers, Leavers, Droppers.
Who decides?
Anything moist is converting itself into vapours.
Absorbing colours, slow winter waters.
Space.
Who can know us when we are hiding from ourselves?
The lengths of leg bones,
The length of a sword, a dagger.
Peals of laughter are sometimes peals of uneasiness.
Sometimes they liberate and mingle with the vapours.
Slow winter waters.
The sun sets into horizon not before long.
Baren branches stiffen,
Embrace another dark night of December.
Brittle and strong, like bones.
Poem read by my dear friend Gaelle Famelaer:
