Adding Yeast

 

 

fresh bread

Stir me.

Add the flour of infirmity,

Anoint me with the oil of sorrow.

Beat me.

Pummel me with your fists,

Pound out your frustrations on my flesh.

 

Bake me.

Turn up the heat of your accusations,

Burn me with your passions, the self that fires your actions.

Kill me.

I will rise,

Tower above you,

Tear my flesh to feed a starving world.

You will eat,

And rise

To live again.

 

 

Advertisements

Winter Waiting

potentillabranch

Small felt smaller still after

being buried alive, wrapped

Egyptian style in layers

bred of cold desperation.

*

Much energy was wasted

fuming, whining, recounting

tales of those whose days were filled

with blue skies and toes in sand,

Paradise lost; squirming drove

Small deeper into her grave,

tied icy anchors to hopes

that hell had frozen over.

*

Large watched in compassionate

silence. Grieving. Waiting for

Small’s heart to thaw. He sent his

love in diamonds, reflective

prisms in hues carved by age-

old mysteries into shards

of brilliance, setting each stone

with a jeweller’s practised eye,

glowing treasures at her throat.

*

He waits still. Small sags, sulky,

snow-blind. But patience lives where

love glitters; Large wipes her tears

with rainbows, crowns her mornings

with gentle soliloquies

cooed by mourning doves,

harnessing the Chinook winds

to end her hibernation.

Flavour

You’re tough, I’ll give you that –

beneath those delicate petals are ribs of steel,

whale-bone corsets to hold soul together

as the frosts gather like vultures to the kill.

Is this the flavour of determination?

I will drink of its bitter-sweet potion,

its brackish thickness,

if it means that

I can grow a backbone, too.