I mark the change of the
seasons by punching a hole in the wall, by
bringing fresh tomatoes from the garden.
I mark the change of the seasons,
As every day comes as the one before,
As the darkness that wans, the sliver of moon that bends.
The winter months fall because of bitter realizations,
I am forgotten, like a ghost, forgotten for the time
I spent doing good deeds.
I am not a soldier. I wish to be dead, to be stillborn,
To be underground with the others,
The ones who are silent when I walk,
The ones who never say anything bad about me.
Flowers in gardens. Big and little flowers,
Flowers of all kinds.
I trip over my feet as I went up the stairs,
You said you were trying to teach me a lesson,
I know you’re lying.
The bells ring in the distance.
I know what it’s like to be forgotten,
I hear the tolling of bells.
The wind moans, darkness comes,
Steadily, tramping up doors and banging on them.
I mark the change of seasons. Seasons pass, come and go,
Fill up the water hole with pits and shadows.
You scream for baked bread and peaches.
You yell at your pillow. The day has not grown old.
I hear bells ringing.