by Zinta Aistars
In spring: winter.
A slow unraveling,
season from season, day from night,
the threads of one life from the tapestry
Cells detach, fingers loose, lips unlock.
Slowly, knees buckle
and touch earth again.
A flickering of pale light in the window,
a fine mist turning the sky opaque.
A calm quiet place in the woods,
spot of sun, cover of trees,
knowing you are just beyond
the edge of the woods
in your own sun:
all I need.
(Painting "Ziema" by Viestarts Aistars. To see more, visit