Cornelia Bullen-Smith

My empty nest syndrome
(analysis at 55)

I chanted to my sparkling wisdom of the here and now,
fearing lightning, yet longing so for stormy thunder.
eyes closed, I summersaulted smartly into disappearance,
entering the breathless void of de-boned shoulder tasks.
Hoping that

I might attempt  again again again to dance into my life –
a baby butterfly, drizzled with a zillion kindly stars.
sprightly, I might slippy slide on new beginnings
into the joyfilled garden of life’s wonderous possibilities.
Hoping that

or maybe sooner
I shall gently jiggle the kaleidoskope of hope
abandon myself to living in the lushness of lovely wonderful me’s,
multifocal, colourfully glowing, revived, complete.


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