Flowers

Ploughed field
Ploughed field

 

She picked flowers. Perhaps her beloved woman will come to her tonight.

She picked flowers. Shabbat is standing on the doorstep. In a while, evening will fall.

The field was almost ploughed. Long furrows stretched towards the horizon, some straight, others not. She wasn’t sure. There’s always this doubt. There are nights, saturated with love, nights with soft fullness. But these are so isolated. Isolating. The rest, when her lover doesn’t come to her. No, she doesn’t wish to think about it. Tonight she’ll come. Perhaps. If only!

 

She picked flowers.

A tiny tractor, like a children’s toy, buzzed in the distant horizon, hurrying to finish its work prior to nightfall. The soft pale blueness, wrapped with yellowish-pinkish rays of light, peeped down towards this lonely huwoman, forlorn upon the face of the earth, nodded to her its colours and began to swallow the orange fireball.

She picked flowers.

Earlier, the man driving the tractor passed her, big and thundering, filling her field of vision, preventing her from breathing, forcing her to turn sideways towards the barbed wire fence, leaving a veil of dirt behind him, encasing her in dust. He gave her a brief glimpse, estimating his odds. It was obvious from the expression on his face that he was in a hurry.

 

She picked flowers.

How can one pick flowers when there are none?

 

Anemones
She picked flowers

Hallucinating words

 

 

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