Suddenly, words are not to be found.
Blanks.
Wooden sharp poles
stand up on soaked ground.
Emergency of senses
grow rapidly,
without an ending sentence,
finding an exit,
or hope
in a muffled sound.
Next step
is a candle,
burning near
an open window.
Dark wind
steal a sailor’s dream,
wash away
empty sea shells
on a premature
and wintery tide.
It’s not cold,
though my frozen heart
suggest
it is.
©Uzi Geffenblad 21/3-2025