Last night, 
a tree took root in my stomach,
and in my mind - 
the birth of an unwanted child.
Now I'am awake, and I ask: 
Who gives birth to trees?
Who plants them? 
Why does one water them,
and another cut them down?
Are there homes for undesired saplings,
as there are for children? 

January 2026 

The windowless room will collapse first in my heart, then in reality.
Wall by wall, like a foldable cardboard box.
The ceiling will fly away taking its cobwebs in the corners with it.
After that, the shadows will leave as well -
those shadows that my mouth was long unwilling to chew,
and that the imagination unjustly thickened.
The last leaf of the past will tear itself free and thud into the sea like a brick,
yet there will be no pain - in the sea, there is no pain; it only absorbs it.
Out of emptiness, space will be born where I can be young again,
then a child, and grow from the inside out - not backwards, as biology demands.
The recurring dream will melt away, too. There will be no anger or bitterness.
Only that which holds up the sky will remain, and within it,
a new being will rise high in defiance of all the dry lessons on flying.
The windowless room will disappear, and there will be no more rooms without windows.
In my hands, snowdrops will sprout without waiting for winter.
I will love, and with that love, I will build a hacienda from nothing -
only outlines lightly marked in chalk, just enough to know that
once there was a room here, my room from childhood.

January 2026