April

A poem

Daniela Dragas
Scribe

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Photo by Gary Bendig on Unsplash

From the ‘Letters to my Daughter’

I am letting April into our room tonight,
over the balcony railings,
through a small crevice of air left unattended,
between inside and outside.

You can hear it tiptoeing in softly,
like a breath after a long walk,
or a goodnight kiss planted on your cheek,
or rainbow-coloured marbles rolling from the pockets of your green dungarees to the distant corner under your bed,
or a butterfly with velvety wings landing on your fingers that April,
six years ago.

As you stood in the place already shortened,
marked and assigned,
like a plot in a graveyard.

Was there ever a time when measuring of this kind was forbidden?
Was it?

Image by the author

Thank you for reading.

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