Lifetime
This cannot be bought.
The smell of trees
and polish, perhaps also of
father’s aromatic tobacco
and the decades before you were born;
the shiny table top,
cleaned every Saturday, in between
the stains of sweat and coffee, these
unmistakable records of the seating arrangements;
the hard wood with the scars
of pots, fists or
secret pocket knives, initials
and twisted hearts, curled by
the steam over mother’s pots;
and then the edge of the table that you
knock on in the morning, exclamation marks
behind the decision to get up
after breakfast: habit
for a lifetime.
Home
before unlocking the front door
I sometimes listen to
the heartbeat of the house,
the ticking of this or that clock,
the creaking of the roof in the wind,
its silent expectation.
then I open the door
and follow its breath
across the threshold.
The Biggest Tree In The World
The tree next to the forest’s middle
was the biggest in the world.
The way to go there was no riddle,
we walked to where the river purled.
We often went there after school
and sat around his mighty trunk,
and guarded him as our jewel,
and we came back, until it shrunk
and became smaller, almost normal,
no higher than a big house’s roof,
and though the decision was not formal,
as teenagers we stayed aloof.
Only rarely, now and then,
as we go on, with sails unfurled,
one of us may remember when
we lost the biggest tree in the world.
The Blanket
The only thing missing
is the blanket pulled over your head:
The light of the half candles
interprets the letters
in a new way every moment.
Looking at the clock,
the tingling in your stomach grows:
Only this page
or the rest of the chapter,
you can sleep late on Sunday
and you’re old enough anyway,
and yet every sentence
tastes special at this hour
even without a blanket pulled over your head.
ABOUT THE POET
Andrea Tillmanns lives in Germany and works full-time as a university lecturer. She has been writing poetry, short stories and novels in various genres for many years. More information can be found on www.andreatillmanns.de.
