Summer lilac

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

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