Tenderness Of Californian Days

Us, sitting there
in the still of Time.
A terrace hang in an ever changing light
grey ocean waters, sunny-cloudy skies,
in between, bay leaf trees
on a steep backyard
and here and there,
citrus trees bowing to the ocean,
loosing their decaying fruits
to the earth's deep brownish turf.


On brighter days, on yonder
bridges run through
the line of water and sky
like a trans-express
bound to a wordless territory.

Us, siting there
in the still of Time.
The air filled with tenderness
of unspoken words,
the day reclining back to the indigo of the night
and us,
still seated there
scumming the white froth of the day.
The velvety crimson of a Cabernet
in sparkling crystal glasses
nonchalance taking over.
A moment of void passes
and a slew of words,
like a tremor of flapping wings,
fill the space.

Us, sitting there
like wingless birds
in the deep furrow of Time
attuned to life.

Then comes the long road,
flat, dull and edged
by mustard colored fields.
Mountains and colorful fruit stalls
bursting with the sensory promise
of delightful tastes,
both memories and discoveries:
Pistachios, pomegranates,sweet and Meyer lemons
Oro Blanco, blood oranges,
persimmons, quinces,
dried sour cherries...
laughter and some more laughter,
continuous laughter in the meanderings
of parkings and lobbies and into mirrored lifts
unloading life's burdens,
unconspicuous tears held tight
in bellies hoarding endearing words.


When comes back the straying light
of the Californian day
bathing empty sidewalks
and crowdless inviting terraces
and us,
reclining back to uncollected poetry,
lemonade and ice tea
and Rilke's rocking lyrics:

"Long you must suffer, not knowing what,
until suddenly, from a nice piece of fruit hatefully bitten,
the taste of the suffering enters you.
And then already almost love what you savor. No one
will take it out of you again."



Flora Yeghoumians