Sylvia Sharpentier

There,
I sat on the bench under the chandelier of twistin' florids
After quivers against winds from a turning season
And blessed the earth carpeted with decaying leaves 
Where October forespent upon the feathery bank
So I hung my hammock between the trees
And rested my head like a good ol' vagabond

My sketchbook is full of your symbols
Sure I did drink coffee in the morning
But still hazy I am of you

I played with foams aphrodisiac
As I rowed a wooden skiff with my oars
Over a river of many dreams I folded manyfold
So I praised this holy enclave of lights so beatific
For a mill in the dew bobbed nigh a brook so bucolic
I taught birds to sing like O tengo duende, cariño!
Highland cattles flocked around me in curiosity

Leaves scretched the air with the sound of gunshot or plows
As they kissed the ground so silently

The empty breezeway records lolling memories like a music box
I remember that old professor with faded glasses 
Looking so profound but frankly tired
Saw something in me, and I felt understood

Transparent orgamis slowly penchéd to the sound of violin
On the surface of a calm lake
In an early morning
Where a Valais Blacknose stretched out its heavy trunk and
Quenched its thirst in the quiet