She slaps me in the face,
full and forceful.
I don’t turn away.
For the first time in a long time,
I don’t cower
like a homeless house rat
at the hunger of a cat.
My fingers don’t fumble
no shiver down my spine,
like a book lover
caressing a binder.
Instead, I smile.
My hair leaps from its pedestal,
tickling my nose.
I sniff as it goes.
For every slap in the face,
I shower back smiles.
Warm spring breeze.
While skies siphon blues
springing up in September
suckling buds of May
White, light on sight,
as swans in a lake
flowing with a breeze,
fluffy puffs of spring
glide across my gaze.
As tiptoeing at midnight
lest we awaken ghosts,
floating, beyond reach—
like truffle, treacle tarts,
hover those clouds.
Jump up, dance about
spread your arms and sing along
spring is your oyster
Bright green leaves nodded, agreeing with the wind whispering in their ears. Like a million marbles rolling under the sun, in yellow and pink and white and blue, flowers shone in her face, showing off their sheen, manicured petals pollinated just in time, having lent shoulders to younglings experimenting wings.
They rest a while, but in the end they always take off. For blue skies beckoned them, casting their puffs of cloudy distractions aside, bringing sunlight to the spotlight, inviting explorers, the adventurous blood-eyed magpies and chirping berry eaters.
What a shame to be indoors, Hope wondered rolling her wheelchair out.
