A poem created late at night in a creative fervor, about the life and fears of a small plant.
But a Life, a Flower
Curled inside itself, a bud
swallows its own darkness, crying.
It left its seed today, moving from a world
hard but firm, a warm and rigid home
filled with food, everything it needed
(and all it knew).
Then yesterday, it all ran dry, nothing left.
It grew hungry, grew thirsty,
so dry and so desperate
that it pushed out;
tendril by courageous tendril it expanded,
tasting the moist earth, (curious) kept moving, feeling.
Then found open air, broke the surface;
It wants to stop growing, to curl back into
dirt and darkness,
but it cannot halt change.
(such a tiny plant)
Now, it has a flower it cannot open
(refuses to open)
Shrunken by despair it drinks stale shadow, stays closed.
(the only change it can control).
Wet slickness, cold stiffness, hot dryness;
time brings its sensations.
(They all pass)
Look up, little plant,
Breathe, just breathe the wind,
and inch by inch unfurl,
so slowly, tasting.
And when you are completely open, stretched,
petals reaching out so far it hurts,
then the wind may beat you to bowing,
the raindrops pelt you to drowning,
animals may grind and maul your leaves
and insects tear away your flesh and suck
the sap from your veins,
(for the world is cruel, so hungry, and so much bigger than a flower);
but you will live, little flower, live
filled with light –
warm in your veins, bright, buzzing and sweet – an eternity
following a sun you cannot see
until your petals shrivel,
your stalk breaks
and your roots rot quiet in the earth.