God knows I'm good

When do you stop staring and go see the world

with hopeful eyes, with advantageous light?

When do you stop being sceptical and treat

ideas as newly planted tomatoes, as rainwater?

When do you stop fleeing and do you walk on

the streets like a proud member of a brass band?

When do you stop dying and do you resurrect

from your own hewn tomb? To breathe, to live?

When do you stop being silent and love words

like you love jewellery, beautiful new clothes?

When do you stop doubting and do you learn to

walk about on eggs shells, water, mountain tops?

When do you stop crying and do you laugh like

you did right after the birth of your first son?

When do you stop writing and do you roll up your

sleeves to build a tree house, a sunny terrace?