Она засмеялась, она улетела...

In december trees are bare,
crooked shapes with shoulders hunching,
raising dark protruding branches
through the color of despair.

Things impossible to bear
make the pillow book of whining,
care to keep them in confinement -
in december wires are bare.

New year brings a change of cadence:
with abundance of next mondays,
with a promise of rematch,
with a bigger fish to catch,
with a wisdom to hold on -
like, "face gazebos when alone" -
with the bliss of fresh new page,
with a yield in bars of cage,
with a crack in black cuirasse…

It shall come and it shall pass.
Sleep, sweet heart, pretend to dream,
nurse the bareness within.