Poetry

On a spring day

Her name is made of leaves

as she cups the sun in her hands

and turns it into golden liquid, elixir

blood, life.

Her face is of soil, is of water,

drawing, drawing

until her heart turns green, then red

and erupts

for the bees to collect.

Her pieces fill their baskets

and they spread her fingers everywhere.

Sparks for everything she touches.

 

Poetry

Timelines

We once talked about your stay in hospital.

At first, I couldn’t remember.

It was during the time when I didn’t know who I was,

but I knew who you were,

and who you were wasn’t someone in hospital.

Who you were was the person who made my reluctant self

talk about the things that bothered me,

telling me not just that it was okay, but that it was fine to feel that way.

Fine to have emotions. Fine to be angry at the world. Fine to accept we’ve had our dreams crushed by those we love.

 

I can remember now, if I really try.

I don’t recall your stay being lengthy, though you say it was several weeks.

Something about that just doesn’t settle in my mind.

Strong, grounded, dependable you

out of action, recovering from an operation

that was not like the game we used to play.

One that for you, was very real, and for me,

just fizzled from my mind

so that the image I have of you never wavers.