Patricia Picardi, Ingenerio Maschwitz, Argentina

Not for nostalgic.

I look at the window pane,
the wind hits the rain against it.
The sun is fighting a battle
with the dense clouds,
which seem stuck to the firmament,
and despite its majesty,
it does not reach to cross them.
I count the bubbles in the grass,
the symphonic chorus of the frogs,
is deafening, the leaves of the trees, exhausted of so much water,
get relief with violent gusts from the east.
The field needs sun to fructify,
the plants need sun for their photosynthesis, the ground needs sun to flow inside,
the snow needs sun to be born
the blue forget-me-not,
the water needs sun to create more rain ...
But not now, now I need the sun,
my face is pale and my skin is cold.
I feel the warmth of a ray of sun on my head, my arms, my hands,
and my body shakes melancholy.
My lips are no longer purple
and the heat reaches every cell
of my existence.
The yellow cocoon is empty,
and I see the butterfly that emerged from it, painted by the most exquisite painter
with iridescent colors.
The river thunders,
the fine drops fly and the sun gifts me
a rainbow of thousands of invented colors. Nature resumes its habit and I,
with the sun illuminating my path,
only wait for you.

© 2019 Patricia Picardi.