Winter Walker

The crow swings on a branch

and reverberates the air

a few times in a row,

swaying its own being.


I’ve the impression that if I could fly,

I would have a hard time choosing which tree 

to land, or what kind of weight is needed

when arriving at my destination.


In a life of predestined branches,

I’m the kind who undresses in winter

just to feel the warmth of leaves caressing my skin,

revisiting the warmth of body

watching itself

being emptied of seasons.