We don’t expect epiphanies
for pulling out dried roots—
only observe that people look primal
when feeling fruit for ripeness
and are prone to leaving air-con rooms
for the southerly’s full-body rush
Documentation’s a pest
uprooting us from our home in the present—
here we meet our minds
through soil in fingernails
removing oxalis from strawberries
like anxious neural circuits
Coming home
my body throbs for stillness—
I sit, swampy muscles
set by oncoming breeze
Some realisations require
an ignorance of deadlines—
I miss the submission date
waiting for the southerly to come