Summer storm
Sitting on the fresh sheets of my bed, on this summer night, that strikes with all their arms, my window open, but with soft ivory-colored cotton curtains, let the night breeze flow through my room.
Then with a blank sheet of paper and my pen, I hope the night and its sounds, stimulate my imagination.I can smell the scent of the azareros of the neighboring garden, of my roses and jasmines, that day by day open their cocoons, like an explosion of life.
. The eleven o'clock train sounds sings in different tones, like wanting to improvise a melody. Crickets, frogs and toads give their usual concert and variety of insects dancing around the white light lantern, very appealing to them, alert the owl that every night lies on the fence post, and he also offers me his cooing.
Now the breeze, muted in the wind, the curtains rise, like the dress of Marilyn, I see the pines, poplars and oaks that move, not in a single direction, but waving their branches in untidy swings.
A cloud of dust advances from the railroad tracks, east wind, and makes its way through the streets, like horsemen on their majestic steeds. Then I start to feel the smell of the earth barely wet and with urgency, the water leaves the clouds.
I approach the window and watch the summer storm, which in a few minutes away, like a messenger who must follow his path and share the long-awaited relief. I think my imagination began to flow.
©Patricia Picardi
Sitting on the fresh sheets of my bed, on this summer night, that strikes with all their arms, my window open, but with soft ivory-colored cotton curtains, let the night breeze flow through my room.
Then with a blank sheet of paper and my pen, I hope the night and its sounds, stimulate my imagination.I can smell the scent of the azareros of the neighboring garden, of my roses and jasmines, that day by day open their cocoons, like an explosion of life.
. The eleven o'clock train sounds sings in different tones, like wanting to improvise a melody. Crickets, frogs and toads give their usual concert and variety of insects dancing around the white light lantern, very appealing to them, alert the owl that every night lies on the fence post, and he also offers me his cooing.
Now the breeze, muted in the wind, the curtains rise, like the dress of Marilyn, I see the pines, poplars and oaks that move, not in a single direction, but waving their branches in untidy swings.
A cloud of dust advances from the railroad tracks, east wind, and makes its way through the streets, like horsemen on their majestic steeds. Then I start to feel the smell of the earth barely wet and with urgency, the water leaves the clouds.
I approach the window and watch the summer storm, which in a few minutes away, like a messenger who must follow his path and share the long-awaited relief. I think my imagination began to flow.
©Patricia Picardi
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