Haibun for vernal equinox
When wind kisses the ear’s shell at the right angle, she sounds like water. It has been three seasons since I last saw you, she hums. I was beginning to forget your face. Her cool laughter trickles away faster than trust, and sunlight reddens the space, warming the backs of eyelids into amber. Then: a staring contest with a full-bellied robin, a hungry wasp’s deliberate calculation, the grass still playing dead on the eve of spring. Everything a waiting game. Yolk and moonlight petals spill over papery blades, too young to know the difference between a flower and weed. Too young to have ever seen themselves as something unwanted.
by night the water
swells into a change of heart
hello if you’re there
Noreen Ocampo (she/her) is a Filipina American writer and poet based in metro-Atlanta. She studies English, film, and media at Emory University and currently writes for COUNTERCLOCK and {m}aganda magazine. She is also a regular contributor for Marías at Sampaguitas. Say hi on Twitter @maybenoreen!