* * *

He lived in a city famous for its apples,
you, in the absence he would never know
you had books opened and read,
so much injustice you found in certain endings
you wrote so that reaching the house with the lights on
might be possible
when winter falls, all tread the same street,
in memories of those who can’t turn time’s tide
then the words you hid in the steam of tea
in front of you, the same slope stands,
a snow-bound road, sinking step by step
a friend told you this, didn’t he?
that he found a note from twenty years ago
now it’s impossible to remember what it said
creating moments out of pensiveness,
you look into yourself as if at a photograph