Copihue Poetry

Instead of working I draw pictures, mountain
vistas or views from high windows over-
seeing the bottleneck below. I sketch
a monk adorned in saffron robes, he
contemplates the sunlight on St. Luke’s
and the steel-grey rain comes thundering
in like a train. Moment to moment
the days pass, the pine door isn’t aware
of spring, the dormers weather the storm
and cumulus radiatus crosses from sky to
sky, each on the point of breakdown.
When night falls I slowly disappear,
clouds dissolve in the dark and a small
orange sun flickers then fades away;
twilight consumes the tower that was there,
all that is solid melts into air.