Sit heavy on my head.
My chest locks up,
Insisting I should sleep.
The last snow caps
On the distant mountains
Are beautiful,
But not inviting.
My limbs want to curl up
In my nest.
Clouds finally begin their retreat.
Some blue peeks through.
The flecks of white
No longer snow;
But the first Fynbos blossoms
At the mountain’s feet.
The rainbow’s arch
Dips both her feet
In pots of Fynbos promise.
And insects, drunk on dew and nectar
Sing and call us to join.
The butterfly and I
Crawl out of our chrysalis homes.
Stand in the sun
Slowly stretching and flexing.
She flies up
And my spirit soars.
Like a snail dancing
Across an artist’s palette,
I step into the swirls and splashes
Of the Fynbos blooms.
Golden pincushions, goblets of nectar.
Shimmering sugarbirds
In ruby and emerald.
The bush comes alive
As birds sing and waltz
With the butterflies.
Fynbos perfumes,
A powerful elixir.
The key to unlock my chest.
Finally,
Spring is in the air,
Spring is in the Fynbos,
Spring is in my step!
SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD
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