Margaret Chula

                                                        a summer’s day
                                                        spent doing nothing
                                                        in particular
                                                        the scent of white sheets
                                                        fresh from the line

                                                        we lie awake
                                                        in the four-poster bed
                                                        of his dead parents
                                                        all night long, rain
                                                        drips from the gutters

                                                        uncertain spring
                                                        and your departure
                                                        a cicada shrugs
                                                        out of its shell
                                                        wet and blinking

                                                        crying for its mate
                                                        a pheasant can be consoled
                                                        with a mirror
                                                        looking into mine
                                                        I see only longing

                                                        late autumn
                                                        in my room in Krakow
                                                        Chopin Preludes
                                                        and that mourning dove
                                                        who shared my sadness

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