HISTORY

The day you saw the Aurora light, my hands were weaving hay threads in an attempt to give you a shape, a body. I imagined you thin, almost diaphanous, as you placed the warp well folded in the closet of your labyrinthine present, waiting to exist. While you were born, I smelled your unripe womb, the smell of grass and freshly baked bread. I followed your gaze, lost among the rows of mulberry trees and fields, looking for the matrix of your being, and now I can no longer observe that grass in any other way than through your eyes.