Pt. II. Uncomfortable. Unwriteable.

Did you leave that day because you knew what was coming? I think she felt better knowing you had departed before you were aborted. Wrong place, wrong time for you, spring child. These weeks have been unusually warm – we went from winter to summer in a few short days. Spring was short, and sudden – for you, it was just the right length. Those new buds pushing through the black dirt, now faded and wrinkled. When the collector-thrushes guided you away, so too left the migratory birds, moving on with the quickest of stopovers. Blooms fading and crumbling in the heat – no rain or dew to stem their thirst. I’m glad your spring was short, makes it easier to miss you. No sparrows to sing your name. Or soft pink buds with faces like yours. The season came and went, no lion, lamb, showers or flowers. Just a two-day-feels-like-ten-minutes tornado, the house set back down almost in one whole piece. I sorta wished you’d at least shattered the windows, I’m afraid you won’t mean enough, that you’ll be forgotten by next spring…not that you would’ve hung around anyway. You had already left the building by the time they tried to shake you out. Your dusty footprints all that was left to be swept away.



Pt. I


About definitelynotapoet

View my work in Skirt Quarterly, Untethered, Vagabond Citylit, the Quilliad and Tracer Publishing.
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