Late january south

they have arrived unexpectedly

some winds

warm.

Their warm and violent tongues

they enter the hollows

of the forest shaking

the great old pines,

like the breath of the dakini

shake the numb marrow

for the cold of winter

of the lonely old hermit

in the stillness of the forgotten silence.

The shoots of the almond trees

they stretch shy,

still insecure, from lethargy

and they rejoice in the pulse

of new life

that beats inside and calls you already

to rebirth.

The tree mass is a sea

churning in messy eddies.

The clouds rush by

not wanting to hide anymore

the clarity of the sky foretold.

Finally, open windows

and clean air passing through

the internal spaces of the dwelling

that widen until dissolving,

beyond the walls,

in boundless space

where inside and outside are not

more than useless words

that no longer contain the longing

of an open heart

to the winds that have come

from the south at the end of January.

Wakô Dokushô Villalba

22 January 2021