I remember last November, when the lilac buds were falling
From the jacaranda trees on that sultry Sunday morning.
I had looked up to the sky, while I held my cobra high,
And I thought I heard you calling me to swim against the sea.
I pressed into downward dog and felt myself stretch open,
To opportunities, and memories, such daring would then beckon.
I stepped my right foot forward and then guided in my left,
And I hung there for a moment with my thighs against my chest.
I watched lilac droplets fall, barely three quarters blooming,
From between my knees they looked half-awake and unassuming.
I thought what a way to go, to live and not quite know
What it’s like to test the water, and take a chance to fully grow.
The sea—salty, wild and murky—it might carry me away,
But I heard you reassure me that it’s better than to stay.
I rolled up through my spine, breathed in long and full and sweet,
While I felt the waves try to pull and test the grounding of my feet.
I watched lilac droplets fall, buds a quarter fast asleep,
And on that warm November morning I dove straight into the deep.
Amanda Celeste is an emerging writer, communications specialist and yogi (sort of) hailing from Australia. She loves oddities, vulnerabilities, hot drinks and green life. Follow her on Twitter.
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Assistant Ed: Ben Neal/Ed: Bryonie Wise
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