Eanna sits on the threshold
peeling chestnuts, glancing at the violets
scattered in the orange grass,
her long homespun dress is tightly pulled
over her round, slightly puffy knees,
so that some of the embroidered
animals are stretched,
distorted into grotesque monsters.
The young horned wind loiters
through the rooms,
swinging his citrine braids,
blowing through a tiny reed,
paying no heed
to the two kittens trying
to claw his silver-contoured hollow leg.
The pot is boiling,
soon we will have a meal.
I close my eyes and dip my nose into Eanna's
thick auburn hair which smells of chestnuts,
we stay like this, completely motionless,
for another whole
year, till I am startled by the burst of noise
made by the fallen cypress pole
which I held at Eanna's burial.
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