Answering the Season

Lured outside, away from daily chores, by the scent of elder flowers dancing in the precarious breeze of an approaching storm. It's Summer now, though I've nearly forgotten to regard it. That tender lushness, oozing possibility and freedom; the daydreams thick as flowering sweet peas and just as heady in their fragrance. A little lonely outpost, I watch sundowns, feet buried in grass I can't quite feel, mind tearing away at the layers of inequality in my being. Little starving child, huddled down in the rich garden, awoken from some years-long dream, forgetful of the beautiful rashness of her past, voracity spent and flying southwards, dreaming of old times, alone.

Little haiku of myself, written in the season as it nearly passes me by with all its tumult and liberating excitement. Little leggy plant of a woman, wanting to grow away from her broken soil and spill into abundance, tickling her environs with the pleasant intoxication of hope. Bold little Sun, taking her long trek homewards, leaving behind in the mantle of her warmth a trail of promise, and I look after her, trying hard to bend my mind away from what might be, and simply follow the Light.