Last year...
Not a whole lot.





getting near dusk:
on the trunk of a white birch
pink of the sun
insomnia...
in a clear winter night
the rumble of a train
smell of new soil –
the melting snow reveals
tufts of old grass
shivering
in light clothes
– the April fool
the warmth returned
but not the swallows
every morning
I expect to see
not frost but snow



All poems © Miira Mänd


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Last update 03.01.2004
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