Births

I was found in a barn

at the end of August, in the middle of the hay,

when it still has the smell of summer.

But I was born on a fig tree

and in September my fruit was mature

if from a crack in the peel

the flesh moaned a sweet juice.

January was icy

when they collected me, still alive,

under the leaves of a head cabbage,

on my back on the frosted land, only covered

by the fog’s winter sheet of the fog.

Nevertheless in March I flourished again,

in the middle of a field

I bloomed from a daisy

and I sung in the chorus, with spread petals,

the entire life

August 31, 2006