The sunlight of night is almost the same, and I watch the misty blue of your house, as it glimpses through the branches as I look at its timber impregnated with grief.
Your blue house still rides on pagodas of weed, on the weed transforming to surf, but the dragons have withered and on the ground lies the shadow of a boomerang, broken, and bending are the Upanishads of weed.
The walls have been painted again, a fourth time, just as you predicted, but the windows are empty waiting for rest, waiting for words. waiting for owners repainting with wishes, it waits for an owner who paints, without a brush, from the inside and out with blue.
It carries in itself the heart of a child, it still resembles a drawing but its lines are not bold any more, but hesitates as if crayoned with arthritis hands. It’s like it remembers a shimmer of summers but dressed in a Polaroid skin.
Inside the unrest of ceilings have settled, besmitten to peace by the walls, but the ship in painting seems tired of riding the froth of the waves, and the frame have imprisoned its wind.
But still it is early inside, as if crossroads can open again, there are echoes of footsteps and somewhere my vessel is running a parallel route, preparing for me, while somewhere beyond the sky is on fire.
Today Walt hosts dVerse Poetics and he gives us examples of summer poetry. Our challenge is to revisit a summer poem through the eyes of another poet and a poem. I did choose my own poem “The blue house by Tomas Tranströmer”, and to me this breathe Swedish summer, and the feeling of standing with one foot in the grave while being more alive than ever before, also it gave me a chance of writing prose poetry for once.
June 21, 2016