Who counts our stories?
Away, just lost, repaired.
They weigh, embed our worries
And moments, thick of glare.

If someone counts our stories
And beauties of ice sculptures,
Then year's pretty wholeness
Should be in grass and slightness.

If something in the air
And roses' red unfolds,
This may be fragrance of a travel
In steps and in night clothes.

Another mile, may be.
Or can it be that close?
If asking neighbour fairies,
You have to love them both.

April 2024