pi & anne

To the unyielding man who has no words,
not for closeness, not for a journey
to the rugged rocky coast:
the hydrangea in two colours.

What is it that separates us,
and what keeps us together?
In the garden, I rake
the leaves from the fruit trees.

I write,
but my mouth has many tongues—
in the city, all the windows open
in the morning.

To the man of gestures:
I don’t speak your language,
so who translates for us
what we mean, what we don’t say?

For me, there is no choice:
The moss covers the bark
facing north,
where my child stands.

A piece of paper
in my trouser pockets
with a carefree person’s scrawl
and hosts of worried folds . . .

To be a mother, she smiles,
is lavender bloom
exposed to wet seasons:
grey mould.