Back then I was a blend of hope and milk,
a fragrance I called:
A neat fit with a sense of belonging
sewed into place with trust and courage,
the buttons and bows on my dainty dress.
Until one day
when my dress becomes too small
for my soul
and my fragrance needs more.
Needs oranges and cinnamon.
No more milk.
Howling Moon is what I call it now.
and I burst out of my dress and into my freedom.
My new dress a weave of rebellion
Right there and then I get into a boat and sail
the intimate tides over and around at least
one thousand changes. I get there.
the deep searching essence of frankincense
and a hint of euphoric zesty grapefruit
and I know I’m there.
The place where I am to change moons.
I wrap myself in the soft silky fabric of present tense,
bind it together with a long string of friendly words and
adventurous beads all the way from Africa.
I choose to switch to an expecting half moon
wrapped in wide open space for change
and exploding stars.
For conversations with my ever-there companion,
Hope. Hopeful Moon I call it.
by Liesel Beukes