When you thought you stood on the threshold
of spring, a flock of sprightly old fables
rushed from the entrance and before it leafed

into a thick book, the tree hurriedly showed you
the birds’ nests – bulging like heavy breasts
of young nursing mothers – where they’d rest

a little, as the long winter nights wring out
all memories and sighs from the previous summer,
and again be swaddled in fresh green secrets.

Then you feel like cooking something tender
to serve your sunken hope a little
and brighten the heavenly mirror with a new face.

You see, even the wings of migrations unfold:
dark granaries start dreaming of new harvests,
and empty barrels of oblivion yearn the ripe grape.

The coming summer will bear food for the hungry,
while the ensuing autumn will foretell whether
we’ll freeze on the tip of an icicle or, happily fed

dance on tiptoe on top of an acorn.