Português
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The umbrella is open, but the rain
is not ready to fall. It shies and waits,
waits until is already late to come.
Spring is near and I feel shy of the sun.
I kneel down by a flower patch and the dry
sidewalk feels cold against my hands.
I keep thinking of bees, buds and umbrellas,
all in one thought.
Flower memories slap my face like a blast
of winter storm.
I scroll down the images and my brain is smitten
by the possibility of love within thought.
Images come, go and change me slowly
like spring opening its buds.
A careful dancer. I have time to think
of flowers and ballerinas, I have time
to touch the bare, infertile ground.
Somehow I know the earth gives me time,
because she is getting ready, she is not timid
of new buds.
I rise from the ground relieved to know how much
I don’t know, and how that much is what, somehow,
a flower knows.
And again it is umbrella, bee and flower
in my brain, all in one thought.
Poem winner of context Mandala Books published in The Science Creative Quaterly.
