A poem about a tree in Berlin, titled simply, "Spring."
I don't know the name of that tree that
stood for a whole winter under my balcony.
But I do know now that it has become a peacock, parading
its colors, flapping its wings.
Whenever the wind whispers a message from its siblings
into its ears, it tries to fly to them.
But the Earth refuses.
Its feathers fall on the sidewalk.
Passers-by step on them.
In a few months, it will tire, bow its head, and disappear.
But the three will stay standing,
dreaming of the peacock through winter nights.