Amanda Bordrup

The crescent moon in January,
the geese that flew above me in February,
the gentleman who read
Graham Greene
on a stool by the corner shop,
they all feel hidden away in the fog
blown down Mt Grouse
this morning.

Laughter is in the cherry blossom,
loss is sea foam at the beach,
and the afternoon strikes up a conversation of formations
so I dance with the snowdrops
popping with care around my street.
At every uprise,
I sense their glee,
so I prevent myself
from picking them.
It is so magical to be in this illusion
where time only spans
across March, April, and May.

Last spring, I wrote eulogies
for the time I spent among zucchini blossoms
and imagined a requiem
read out loud when I laid among them.
Nothing feels like skin like their flowers.

My mother birthed a poet
when hazels and anemones sprung.
Magnolias, daffodils,
daisies and thistle
all scream in ecstasy
whenever I grow older,
but only now do I feel this need to rise.

I worship rebirth,
it is one of many reasons
I am so fond of spring,
so I’ll melt away in the orange
light of tomorrow’s early morning,
with celibacy and celebration.

It is a triumph to breathe for a full day.

---