Reading

Every year when spring comes I feel more sun-starved,
touch-starved, warmth-starved, petrified in my bones.
I go out and lift my face to the sunlight, sunshine, and
just for a moment, I feel it: the relief of still being here,
the joy of having a body
that needs, a mind that tethers
itself to whatever love it encounters. I walk
with my eyes closed, or squinting, arms by my sides, and
I feel my hands, bare to the sunrays, present again,
safe,
and alive,
for the first time
since October.

Entry tags:

poetry makes the heart grow fonder

escapril 2026: #5 dandelion

I borrowed a prompt list from

leanwellback and

yarnofariadne and I don't know how much of it I'll get through, but today's actually produced something? I haven't written a poem in forever, but I sometimes think up some lines, get in the shower, sit down and can't be bothered to type them in. This time I did. Growth! Or something.

#5 dandelion

these ephemeral things
we were taught to wish on: the
flash of light, the flickering fire, the
keratin, metaphorical enamel -- each hope
a snuffler, the smoke
folding into the fabric we breathe in.
It's in the last exhale that their aim is clear:
to come back in a year, ready
to scatter.