by Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu
Everything was about to break,
only the wind knew their story:
whitewash crumbs on fences,
walnut leaves at the door sill,
a shirt thrown on a scarecrow,
hollow gutters sprinkling rain.
The truth is far more simple,
like salt grains on bread.
On a hot day they gave bread rings and porridge.
Usually the road was dusty,
but that day heavy whirls of dust
hit the garden gate
where she used to gather beans
with her hardened hands;
dust balls rolled in the verandah
where a young lass spun wool,
lads calling for a ring dance;
snowy dust weighed
over dahlias and sweet basil,
near the church where they baptized her.
It is cold and stars are craggy.
The moonlight strikes like a knife
on the empty cellar lock.
Near the porch a dull scythe sways,
a pitcher hangs in its rotten wickerwork.
An old man sweeps slower and slower
over the same stones.
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