Three time’s the charm

​

“Three time’s the charm”, said the woman in her pink dust swollen dress.

​

The man observed the gorgeous woman and his wide nose quivered.

​

She peeled a pear in three rounds, and the peel trailed behind her.

​

A slow, heavy wing clap passed over the room above the piano body.

​

Someone played the song of his life and placed the half empty cup - on the music rack.

​

Purple flower in the mother-in-law’s lapel and lacy glove on her left hand, Isn’t it a spectacular sight?

​

A sad expression sight hangs in the air, the hair blows in the wind.

​

The still air, the man sits, the sour smell, the light at the end of the tunnel.

​

Piles of goodness on the way home, remnants of mucous discharge, blue leaves on a branch.

​

Isn’t it pure poetry?

​

Aren’t these wounding words?

​

Isn’t it enough that the artist speaks in pictures?

​

The way is not the way. The question is always there. The observer is the only one who knows.

​

Ayelet Hashahar Cohen

​

​