I see.
From my planting in the weeds,
Growing.
Before my sight,
Beyond my reach,
Behind my back.
Rows of pretty maids
Reaching and sucking in
And blooming.
I’m still entrenched
Roots held fast,
Gnarled,
Waiting,
Drying and dead
Petals in the dirt that I sacrificed.
Giving back
Ready to nourish
For the next cycle.
And around me,
I marvel
Stalks and stems
smiling for the sun,
Craned and warm
Impervious to
Pestilence and pain,
Daring the rain to stay away.
My storm already came.
I gave over my water so
That I could see vibrant color,
Not live within them
Or them in me.
The leaving
Unused puddle
Around my core,
Sucking, seeping
To the patent veins
Still open to expression.
My acceptance of
Growth is gone.
I’m parched and starving.
But I can still smell the water.
The flood didn’t take everything.
It’s there.
I don’t have to beg
The gods for rain.
They have given.
I look at the gift,
Offered while I decay,
Dis-entangle and
Disappear.
If I can stand the summer,
Pulls, stretch, reach,
The corner curl of
Any petal
Any jagger
Any persistent,
Stubborn,
Un-killable cell
That wants to
Unfurl from the mud
After winter,
If I can be selfish enough
To take a drop for me–
I can grow.
Stay warm in the light.
Offer breath in exchange
For toxicity.
Be beautiful,
Not for what I do,
Or contribute over
Other cuttings,
But simply because
I am beautiful.
Dark Yarn Productions 