The bee who has been hauling his gold
all day finds a hexagon in which to rest.
In the sky, traces of clouds,
the last few darting birds,
watercolours on the horizon.
The white cat sits facing a wall.
The horse in the field is asleep on its feet.
I light a candle on the wood table.
I take another sip of wine.
I pick up an onion and a knife.
And the past and the future?
Nothing but an only child with two different masks.