Guest Poet IRENE KAESERMANN was born and grew up in Switzerland.  German is her mother tongue; her second language is English, in which she reads and writes.  She likes to put as many thoughts as possible in a minimum of words, so she writes verse and short stories.  She has published German haikus, poems, and prose pieces.

Sunflare Villagers brought down the sun from the sky trained it on a farmhouse wall Where in June showers of sunny blooms gleam and glow and take one's breath away. A profusion of golden roses exudes it subtle scent thrives and drapes a splintery wall.   On the building site in tight jeans and bare chest he resembles a bronze statue eyes closed arms behind his neck and face turned to the sun he appears to be waiting for a worshipper or two overhead a crane creaks in the midday heat when from the scaffolding someone shouts at him languidly the young god opens his eyes and with one swift stroke sweeps back his raven hair straightens then giving the finger to no one in particular picks up his trowel with a curse and saunters back to work The Main Thing despite long talks of all and nothing despite looking at one another we avoided the main thing his needs and silent cries went unheard unvoiced we lost not a word about time left not a word of life after or what to do with his ashes we did not touch on any of this now and then he paused as if waiting for answers neither of us had we carried on talking but what was important remained unsaid and then a night owl screeched swooping down on pent-up words