habromania
“The patience of a rose close to a thorn
keeps it fragrant.”
Spring slips between
the curtains, wildflowers
wet azaleas, the sharp
scent of mint: it’s Shakti
banging her palms on the
ceiling. Wake up, she says,
don’t sleep through this
endless dream. Fruit falls,
and I kneel to collect the
purple figs in my skirt.
Yesterday is already an
ache in my body, the
passionate quarrel with
Time. Step back, the
Great Mother tells me,
boil the water, play with
the daffodils, dance
lightly on tiptoe and
detach yourself from
the ongoing rustle of
wanting what was.
Photo source.
