by Daniela Kukrechtová

Forsythia bushes in my neighbor’s garden
waited, waited, and waited
all winter long. She says
how it rains gold just once and one better
cup one’s hands to collect the ephemeral.

Finally, testing our patience, our wintry hurt,
The soft stars break out of the brittle wood.

They know how to be
right on time, punctual
like my grandfather’s
golden pocket watch.

He’d delay showing me until
my wide-eyed curiosity peaked.
Then he’d tug at the chain
coiling out of his vest pocket
like a fairy-tale snake
or a fast-flowing rivulet.

Finally the smooth oval
slipped out of its dark
den and into the nest
of my grandfather’s palm.

I could look
but never touch.


Before the green night
covers the blossoms’ lustrous lips
I hug you and ponder

their apparently planned
momently existence
that shimmers unevenly
but in step with ours.

Photo by Yoksel 🌿 Zok on Unsplash