the death bed of spring

the dust in my yard smells like

the death bed of spring,

lazy and unusually hot and clinging to

the feet and feathers of sparrows

sometimes bathing in it.

a worm, crawling along

the soft peel of a tomato, rotting in a corner,

is just as tender as

the eye of one of those sparrows

watching it from a distance

and just as tender as

my own eye,

still soaked in dreams and not ready for summer.

a gust of wind whirls the dust, here and there,

and, together with it, the tomato peel

rises like a magic carpet

carrying away the worm

unaware of the miracle happening to it.

the wings of the sparrow suddenly remember

the taste of heights

and beyond my dusty gaze

summer finally sets in.

© Liliana Negoi

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