Skip to main content

Phototropic

don’t you love it          the way trees              trimmed
                                                            under 
                                                         power lines

get right back up                  to reach for the sky

the severed limbs heal         how they send out               new wood           
                                             how relentless                     spreading       

                       light pushing its edge

invisible bridge                                we say phototropic            
this call and response         in supple bends and angles

some creep                      in the largo tempo of        oaks and redwood
others pick up the pace       andante of              mulberries and pea vines

as plants are             people are                    phototropic too      

seduced with light           
light of love                       
swimming
sun and stars

see how we wrap our limbs around one another          
                                         an arbor of hugs
    
leaning in        breaking open    to radiance        cardinal  and  irresistible 
                                              
                                               is it soul or breath     
         
how we rebound            from pruning        reach for the love again
invisible bridge                                          we say resilient

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.
Post a Comment
Read more