O.V

Blue poplars planted
in the open furrow of
my body, phobia of roots
burrow in my heart
a worried wind in their leaves
remembers a turning point
and now fresh sorrows
wait, believing that its late
ever tired now in questing
distant borders, gone like
a mellow martyr, woken with
a wet throat from a dry land.

c) Jan G. Otterstrom F.
    December 16 , 2010
    Over Costa Rica