I am sprawled on the sofa, waiting for sleep to take me and to rest my eyes. It is the noon hour, husband went to play his drums, the house is quiet. I did not sleep much this weekend, I have not slept much this life. I am reading manh ã submersa , but my eyes are seeking closing time, sleep blessings. Manhã submersa brings back college flashbacks, the girl in black riffing on it, like a quick tongued Nubian. From my sofa, through the sliding door, a parasol dances clumsily at the thumping of the wind. My eyes are weary but to do not close, they rest on two large crab apple trees in bloom. This is my favourite season, Spring. It is not like home, at home it rains and it rains on everything. The ground is green, the sun sprouts in intervals and shines all day.   Mother scrubs laundry up and down the slab of stone in the running water. There may be a drought here they say, it did not snow that much, it does not rain. I have a beautiful black umbrella with a red ...