The comfort of a cooling breeze brushes me to sway against my company; attached to growing I think I flourish, un-budding but stretching for the light-sky— only to find it's nighttime. I feel myself breaking— fragile in this frigid air; I’m loosed to fly alone, turning slowly with the gray above me. The earth below asks me, “Don’t you like to fall?” I’m caught by the severed waiting; still, on this bed of ends. Curled edges now crack as I stare at black dirt— it only hurts because I can never return. My clay cocoon now dross and damp, grabbing at me to swallow the yellow-bright—hiding me in toil. Shushing me with no air. Till something blue and liquid finds my buried self and asks softly, “Do you need life?” Then I split and I hope and something stirs within me.
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“Then I split and I hope…” love this like. Hope and growth are often hard work, lots of “splitting” and pain.
An ekphrastic poem, I suspect. One of great and intriguing depth.