the leaning fruit in the fjord,

This strain of wind on the glacial valley.

It is a woman

who knows the joy,

of entwining with her body

Someone for whom she burns.

This strain of pleasure that still no other gave her.

Cloudily woven,

it is the breeze.

In a brief shiver, arm extended

through the fjord’s loins, toward her fleece.

For a morning walk along the shore. Not a single human soul has yet trodden here. The fjord steams with fog and earth powder, endorsing birdsongs through the winter. The air is so full of cold and wooden tempers that I can only breathe deeper. It is as if I could swallow the birds, as if they might land in my mouth, as they do in the holes in the ice. All these birds splashing down—an avian desire to break the surface of the earth, leaving sparse bouquets of feathers to be swallowed.

Birds bore through skies and waters.

Once, I was longing for holding it—the landscape. After having encountered laughter on its lips, blood on its cheeks, tears in its eyes, after its trembling lips had parted my dress, lifted my breasts upon my heart, after its hand that turned pink had searched underneath, there where words elude themselves, the sanctuary of our reasons. The lonesome soul leaning on the ice is now looking for a buoy to freeze.

I would drink over there, during winter times. I would bite the pulp of the fruits which, from his bare branches toward me had leaned. A single of these was so filled with flavor, upon lips filled with desire. For the fruit that falls from the tree shuts down our living thoughts. We conceal in silence and freeze. We see the buoys on the fjord as candied fruits for the sea to preserve in the saltiness of eternity. These are round epidermises, dyed from pleasure, blooming on branches, orange within their foliage; it is a happy profusion that softens as the days go by. We live watching the fruits of our deeds. Branches lean on the shore and grow heavy with sweet flavor, loosening their favorable perfumes upon lips. The fruits fresh robes thicken and arch; some fall, pearls among the ice; a little juice seeps. It is free for the birds to pick up or stare.

For each buoy set in black ice, a wax drop flows. Candles cry in the church. It leaks along sticks and marble heritage, descends to the ground along with the coins clinking inside the collection box. To each donation—metal tinkling from a purse, follows a wax round that leans towards the flame. A scent of cold, dusty stone and incense rises after the mass, as the sea deepens in frost. Pricked is the ice for birds to feed, webbed feet settled on the lake sheet.