by Zinta Aistars
(Pencil drawing by Viestarts Aistars)
It is the smallest pleasures
that matter, delight the days,
cross softly the nights, whispering
of memory, cherished and kept.
The nights are silken, the mornings cool.
They invite: this touch at your temple,
this single kiss behind your ear.
This lean against your arm
as if unaware.
The afternoon cradles a gentle hope,
arms filling with a fragrant bounty,
snapping the crisp stems of daisies
grown in dotted profusion
beyond the hedge,
wandering the field
where you lie still in the waving grass,