Spring countdown
[in poetry]
In four days it will be spring.
Everyone is asleep
but in my head
I am already dancing—
dancing to mountain hikes
littered with wildflowers
and green buds,
walking on quiet city suburbs
watching the leaves wake up
and the birds sing a little louder.
Outside my window
the cherry blossoms
are starting to grow.
One by one unfolding its white blooms.
Every day barren branches
are getting filled,
their hibernation complete,
spectators to a brand new day.
In four days, it will be spring.
Those who love winter are lamenting
because the chill is slowly leaving,
but I have started basking
in the afternoon sun.
Where 6 o’clock used to be
enveloped in total darkness,
I woke up today and
the skies were bathed in softness,
pink pastel hues
folding over each other.
The harsh wind has departed
and in its place,
a gentle breeze caressing.
Last night I saw a shooting star.
It was traveling
straight across the sky,
a glowing ball of fire
on a mission to signal seasons
ending
and beginning.
When I saw the light
streak before my eyes,
I was in the middle of an argument
I vaguely remember.
Seasons come and seasons go.
I’ve never really been good in the dark.
My temper lurking in the night.
In the morning, I am made anew—
light,
eyes wide
and hopeful.
In four days, it will be spring.
Everyone is asleep
but
here I am waiting
in anticipation,
ready to be made anew,
ready to be taken
by the soft wind,
a wildflower on the trail—
dancing,
celebrating.
Morning has come
once again.
Morning walks around the neighbourhood are about to get prettier.