Early spring,

and the robin-chat

sings for no other reason

than he can,

calling the morning sun

into the sky.

Stretching

I rise

to draw back

the aperture veil.

Dazzling butterscotch blossoms

greet my early eyes,

— a flow of honey,

a field of extraordinary fire —

breaking my breath

and catching my heart

alight.

Years

and casements later

I close curtain lids,

drawing on the memory

of golden streams,

which cause my soul to cry

for the beauty

of clivias.

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NaPoWriMo
Day Twenty-Nine

Prompt: This one is called “in the window.” Imagine a window looking into a place or onto a particular scene. It could be your childhood neighbour’s workshop or a window looking into an alien spaceship. What do you see? What’s going on? Write it.

I wrote of one of my favourite views OUT of a window.

Clivia miniata