Crossing Lines

Between the morning dawn and tea –
a flash of joy — a question asked,
a question answered, disconnect — connect.

Then something changes
and a line is drawn, just to be clear,
like traffic lines are
drawn to divide the lanes, or like
these yellow lines on platforms for Firenze trains
which we are not supposed to cross
until the train has stopped completely.

Siempre, siempre la linia gialla,
always, always the yellow line…

The tea is cold, the morning plummets,
splashes on the floor in million droplets,
sparkling. Should I go to bed again?

Then something changes
and I’m in a day in June,
white paper, coloured pencils on a sunlit bench.
There’s a loud clatter of a stork and I look up.
He is lowering down, white gentle giant,
aiming for the patch on a neighbour’s field,
crossing the line of fencing.

Enormous wings spread open, one-two-three,
And in three steps, like in a dance, he lands.
This movement’s so resplendent,
it takes my breath away, I watch in tears
and a wave of joy and sorrow
breaks through and crosses all lines of defence.

Anna Krasko

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