if people are trees then they are most likely to be pear trees
their fruit is at the height of the noon sun with sweet juice
they too fall by themselves
grubby or not with small and soft seeds because man breaks himself
dropping down on the ground with smoothened teeth and bones
he melts like honeycomb

*
at my grandma’s funeral
she looked as if she lost her wrinkles in the coffin
her forehead smiled to the winter sky like water from an ice hole
when we got back from the cemetery we didn’t recognize
her old and black umbrella standing in the corner of the bedroom
everyone wondered why it was there

from one hand to another we shared the wheat porridge
and the clothes and the memories gathering new meanings
it was colder
maybe a small painted angel cried in the icon above the stove

*
one morning I saw a rainbow
it lasted all along the road until the sky was untied from the earth