After Wisława Szymborska

I prefer the taste of hard earned sweat
I prefer my gran’s macrocarpa hedge and the worlds it hides inside
to the neighbour’s plain lawn
I prefer the sea’s tongue as an exfoliator

I prefer colour and if I could erase black and grey
I would
I prefer deep and meaningful conversations to the disingenuous “how are you? Great!”
I prefer hugs, kisses, and words, in any order
I prefer blankets of compassion to sterile pats on my shoulder

I prefer the smell of summer and cut grass
I prefer popcorn rain on a tin roof to a misty drizzle and umbrellas
I prefer to run during a storm, emerging drenched and delighted
I prefer a tui’s soliloquy over the traffic’s
I prefer Papatuanuku breathing calmly when we’re behaving

I prefer this very second in time.

And this one.

And this.