Springweather

In springweather
there are few resting places
for the heavy cry

the minor chords we carry around
like a broken charm.

As the coast towns begin their rituals, a slow wake
in a bed of pink confetti, eyes up in
an act of forgiving the green
for ever leaving
each warm night becomes a runway
of remembering a
younger time

and I become an exception to
the weather.

Some days
there’s a balance of colour
that rests more even
on the faces of others

some days
your clothes feel best
on someone else’s body

some days
the face in the mirror is
closer to the earth
than you remember.

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