Dec 27, 2010 10:19
There's nothing here but everything (or nearly) -
People and places and words and sky,
Sky that meets snow and instantly freezes,
Turning icy cold and as jagged as the language.
The pages of this lovely silver book are heavy.
The words on them are like graceful wrinkles,
Belying its (my) ageing with the fall of each day.
(I wonder, can anyone else see words writing
Themselves over my skin? Could they read them?)
Two weeks in, I'm already not who I was. I've grown,
As I conquer conjugations and fears, because
I realise the latter were of my own making.
I wish the former were, they'd make more sense.
Or possibly not, knowing me. But anyway.
Every moment here is new. Anpassen - adapting.
Shining, shimmering, splendid ("tell me princess,
Now when did you last let your heart decide?").
Don't get me wrong. I love it here, my new family,
The living history, these WORDS! But still I find that
Half of the time, I'm barely even here at all.
In this snow-bleached land, the brightest colours
Can be found within my head, the warmest voices,
And the safest touch. Could it be that without those,
The (nearly) everything that's here - is nothing?
travel,
poetry,
german