From the Publisher
There are times when I despair of some poetry
written, nice words knitted together for the sake
of sounding pleasant the truth of life is made
into a Hollywood romance, beautiful and we cry,
misspent, sentimental tears over the irrelevant.
My almond tree looks spindly like an oversized
spiders web, so ugly in its bareness that hadn´t
it been for love I would have averted my gaze
from this grimness called a tree. But I also know,
say, a month from now it will be covered in pink
flowers which it strews on the path I walk.
There are times when I hate to hear about red
roses, because the next sentence will be trivial,
like bleakness should not be a part of life.