frozen by the morning's glow.
You won't record those
red-framed paintings made of
sun and glass.
Impermeable, you won't absorb
pure honey from those
you'll let them flee your tired
stare; you'll hear them rustling like
a butterfly storm headed nowhere but
towards its own swift splendour
(or perhaps, the iris in my eye).
And all the while you'll smile
like ice, utter to withdraw,
and carry on your strenuous quest
Copyright © 2006 Anna Piutti