I don’t put it in a hallmark printed box
and I don’t tie a pretty ribbon around it.
A slight lump in my throat
becomes this mess of inkblots and letters
which grow into pages, many pages
and chapters
about this kaleidoscope resting in my chest.

I sweat. The hands are sometimes not as vigilant
as they should be
anymore. So I write in whispers and small steps;
I call it my little new year’s eve surprise,
the night I get to unmask Santa Claus
and underneath the smiling, underneath the sharp red costume,
underneath the hero complex -

there I am:

and a better person for each day
that I witness the sun sneak up behind a cloud,
for each instant I breathe in or let it out.
I am a revised me
and always find a better metaphor
with each friend who holds my hand
and with each flower I water to its blooming season.

Every day, I cuss at the stubborn sheets of paper
when, on grounds of too much warmth
and not enough vulnerability to manifest it,
they’d rather stay blank.

Romanian poet

Last updated January 01, 2012