spring arrives barefoot

Poem and a little something

Winter clings like a ghost

to the hem of the air,

its breath snagged

in the crook of bare branches.

But spring,

she arrives barefoot,

unburdened,

her skirt stitched

with crocus and thaw.

She hushes the wind’s teeth,

wraps the saplings

in her warm-blooded shawl,

and lays her palms flat

against the cold to

coax it into sleep.

Mother Nature,

a stern and splendid queen,

combs light into the fields

with fingers of gold.

She whispers to the earth,

Wake now.

Grow.

And everything listens.

Even the dead things try.

I sit behind this pane of glass,

a woman-shaped shadow

caught between seasons;

watching,

waiting,

counting the seconds

like spilled seeds.

But even stillness can be sacred.

Even silence can swell

with something forming.

The world turns,

not cruelly,

but continuously;

and perhaps that, too,

is a kind of mercy.

---

As May draws to a close and the days stretch open, I notice a shift; not just in the air, but in myself. The warmer light, the longer evenings, the quiet insistence of growth all around me. These things shape the direction of my work, subtly but certainly.

I begin to look outward more. My writing leans toward the living world; petals, wind, bird songs, silence. My art slows down, becomes more attentive. I let nature take the lead.

Maybe it’s the residue of a childhood spent in the Welsh countryside, where seasons weren’t metaphors, but facts. Maybe it’s a need for stillness, for grounding, for something real in a world that often isn’t.

I don’t resist the shift. I follow it. I let my voice tilt toward the sun. I let my hands move in time with the season.

There’s no grand revelation here, just a quiet turning, a seasonal adjustment, a recalibration if you will. But sometimes, that’s enough.

---

Love and light 🔆