Pulling over head
Warm sweaters, coat jackets, hats
Left empty hangers.
Slowly, raindrops line our clothes
Shimmer on our hair.
We leave footprints through black sand
Warp over long grass
Making our way into town
Hearing our laughter.
Weaving through the festival,
Translating wishes
Attempting to speak, and joke,
Now reaching my lips, rhubarb.
Andre Bastian Ibarguengoitia