Misty Afternoons

Bright afternoons

cloaked in mist—

Like wisps of sorrow

that roll into the heart

in Spring,

Snaking across beds

of dewy roses

and fulgent dahlias,

To slumber in

the yew tree’s silence.

Happiness is an epidural—

A brief respite of light
in this ceaseless labour
To birth new selves
with each sunrise.