FRIGID

I like to go out into the garden in the morning in days like today. The sun shines but it’s not hot. I like to call it crispy. It would just need a bit less sunshine and a bit more wind to be really cold…hmm no, not cold, rather chilly.

Sometimes furs, words, gestures, woolen socks and mulled wine are not enough to warm us up. The Chill  with his long icy fingers strokes the brinks of the soul leaving traits of white frost flowers. It’s not cold, for sure it’s not freeze. It’s the temperature of methaphisical climate temporarily goes down.Chill is silence…..awaiting….

for touch unmeant not complete

for smile of the lips and eyes

for sound of mobile deep in the pocket

for May-honey words

for quiver of sms surprising our mobile

for flowers picked up straight from the flower-bed

for early-vegetable spring

for hope against her herself

for enthusiasm and engagement

for cramps of longing at 3 am

for stars above your hear at night

for porch with wicker armchair and raspberry tea in stoneware mug

for ladybug on your morning negligee

for green clover carpet under your bear feet

for dream with colorful fragrances among pine trees

for bulrush rustling on the lake

Chill is conscious that on the other side of the milky window pane they are all there. All the wantings hibernated in impossibility. Hands reached out to fit the ice tile when you try to melt it with your thirty-four….four. To discover on the other side that SOMETHING we shouldn’t even think to hanker. Longings and wantings squeezed in the freezer between Grycan’s ice creams and ice cubes for fruit drinks. Let them stay there.