What can the improvised moments of our lives hope for?
Legato: to be bound together smoothly in a letter?

(My dearest, 4 o’clock, Sol opens the door
requesting a duet, embroidery is put down,

picked up, the felling of the frozen tree
is announced, the sun finds a corner to hide)

Or to make their way unannounced into a nocturne, rising
again just when they thought their hiding place secure?

How do I compose? I become a log in the Indre
picking up the floating embroidery of leaves.