There is a painting of a crooked tree
An empty page, a glove, a drop of blood,
A slender hand, a mirror, cup of tea
The smell of winter,
And the lack of stars
Which brings me to this city
To my room:
It is quite new; I have not yet
Acquired any trinkets
(Those tricks we use to recollect events,
Those tales to tell a grandchild)
I have yet
To choose a tapestry,
A rug, a vase, a sword,
An incense-holder
(Just because I like the word),
A hundred useless boxes, pillows, pins
To make it feel like home
That one could tell
From others by its peculiar smell:
The smell of winter
With its never-ending tea,
Somebody else's hand
Fitting a tiny glove,
A drop of bloody ink
Marking the page
As no-longer clean,
The mirror that I use
To mix the paints
And somewhere in-between
The starless night,
The snow that's yet to come,
The canvas and the brush
There is someone
A little bit like me
Afraid to paint
The picture of a crooked tree.