December with highveld rain

and this year is mild and cool
with a rich legacy left
by my dad, but he died
so long ago, and I had to start blooming
in soil, in grey, in ash, in red, because

when a library scorches and then starts to burn
it forms a lament in an inner land

I was an Impala, and I ran

as far as I could

because I am my poet-dad's poet-daughter
who can now listen to the sound of my flute

who can now see the morning sun on the swollen leaves
through my open basement's raindrop windows

with the seasons, dear dad, much sorrow flows away
while I arrange Kindra's yellow Banksia roses
in an earthenware pot
green in my new heart
for the beauty that will always
remain here
within me

🦋🌿

© Annora Eksteen, 2025