PHR4 editor: Alan Summers
Parking lots
There was still grass here last year, now it’s a new parking lot. A burning-hot asphalt carpet laid over the flower bed, in front of my grandparents' house, where I have always returned, enjoying the orchard, and the little lake that has dried up in the meantime.
Fewer trees, many more parking lots, so they cut down the orchards too.
The only one left is chainsaw redefined, I feel it's my grandfather's walnut tree, by the way he holds the head bowed, looking at his beloved land.
the branches of a tree
tied up behind its back –
tightlipped birds
Lavana Kray
Omnibus
I knock on our house door, but it's not my mother who opens. Seeing my doubt in front of the door, the wind smacks it against the wall. Something that looks like a being, a steamy silhouette wearing a long flowery printed dress, swirls around, engulfs
me, while its imprints fly all over the room. What a fresh plum blossom scent!
Suddenly, the wind calms down, the clouds wash out, and the ghost is gone, but all these white petals left on the floor are a sign that I'm not the only one coming home now and then...
honeycomb –
a butterfly alights
on the sweet knife
Lavana Kray
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