postcard

i read a poem on ruxandra's wall today.
it's by olena kalytiak davis and it's called postcard.
there's something about this bit:

Strangely,
it is summer
but also winter & fall.
In response to your asking:
I fill the hours
then lick them shut.
Today, not a single word, but the birds
quietly nodding
as if someone had suggested
moving on.

i recently learned about a poetry form called pantoum.
something about resuming lines in different stanzas - i believe it's the second and fourth line in each stanza that become the first and third in the next one, or something like that. 
i cant be bothered to write in fixed poetry forms, of course, but i sort of like the idea of poets using certain lines as fishbones.

lately it's difficult to see the difference between staying and going.
summer 
your asking
birds quietly nodding.
moving on.

summer
has come and gone, almost
birds quietly nodding
winging their hushed goodbyes to ginger
serenity.

has come and gone, almost
wait, not serenity
winging hushed comeheres to ginger
and me
and you, from behind the smoke.

wait, not serenity
that's not what we were after, was it now?
and me
i wasn't after anything in particular, was i?
'cept lightness.

that bitch.
she so mimsy.
last night she came and went.
winging her promise.
away.

the pantoum is featured in a fiction book by zadie smith, my friend ioana lent it to me - to read until i return to cluj next month. the book is called on beauty and it has a way of growing on you. 
it fills the hours.
licks you shut.

olena's postcard ends with (the lightness of) this:
Please don’t misunderstand: We still suffer, but we are
happy. 

the lightness of that response to
your
asking yourself