Mom

The stars were snownig all night

over you, mom

the constellations poured tears

and the clouds snowflakes,

and the world became white like the angelic one

the one where you headed

freeing the soul.

Your dresses interwoven with snowdrifts

sparkled like the sincerity of the universe

in whose infinity abysses whisper

ones of immeasurable lightness, azure gentle.

Endless skyslides crashed down

to cover you with the thickest white quilts

just like ones your daddy in heaven

maybe is still sewing for angels

packing clouds into covers,

sowing the softest fluff along the way in the landscapes.

I dream whole night of those loose, downy snows

full of stars and sparks of tears

that these constellations poured into my eyes,

the ones by which my grandfather fills his mattresses,

soft as the soul, and fluffy pillows,

and you insert medicinal herbs into them

so that our dreams would smell of lavender,

and Winter Savory of a ravishing spell

of secrets and starry snows.

What Poetry Is

Poetry is a twinkling grace descending from heaven

uplifting exuberance even higher than ever

forever limitlessly joining the mirth of ascending

soul in touch with never-ending brilliance

A thousand diamonds in a sentence of glory

words opalescent and rhyme clear like a mirror

velvety gloves touching the soul of everybody

and healing power soothing entirety

Composed and accomplished, it is compact and unique

like a fragrant flower with intricate details

carressing flow, mildly touching the presence

poetry is the quintessence of life's purposefulness