She knows time heals no wounds
and even time is relative. Without calendars
she wouldn’t even know how old she is.
I’ve heard of deserts where the dunes sing
with a guttural sound that puzzles scientists.
On the other side of the world, ships crash
in the Bermuda Triangle of her memory.
Neap tide in her head. Not everything has a reason.
Fortunately, as a poet, it is not her job
to proclaim the truth.
In her words the summer lilac blooms,
you can hear snow falling.
(c) Leen Raats
Picture: Jo Cuenen