Stand

dreamy tree

You’ve watched them fade, these fragile dreams you sowed

when innocence was freshly minted, the shade

of spring meadows. Just when they felt full-grown,

they yellowed, curled, leaves from an ancient and

shabby book. You lost your grip;

now they lie scattered at your feet, crisp in their

brokenness. You could have died with them – no one

would have blamed you if you had joined your fallen

comrades in all their ashen stillness. Yet here you

stand, head high, arms outstretched,

hands open, expectant. You are an oak,

sinewy and solid. Storms have toughened your skin,

stiffened more than your upper lip,

rooted you in profound places. And I think,

perhaps,

that if you can stand tall after all you’ve lost,

I could stand, too.

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Resilience Defined

snowflakes

Ripped from a watery womb,

You were sentenced to wander aimless at Evaporation’s whim.

Jostled into raucous crowds of strangers

And rejected by every cloud you ever knew,

You’ve been muddied, stepped on,

Swallowed,

Ejected as waste.

Your compulsion for lower ground has bound you to wander,

Ever wander, homeless,

Crying for the sea.

Cruel winds have driven you, harried –

You have fed hurricanes and blizzards from time’s birth.

Do you hold your memories close

On cold nights

As you wait on this snowbank

For your next reincarnation?

For

No matter how you are pressed,

You rise again,

Reinvent yourself.

Your DNA hasn’t changed

Since Creation

But your relentless pursuit

Of Life

Will outlive us all.

 

 

The Beauty in the Mess

ruffles macro

Within each crease, beneath each scar, and etched in every vein

Her petals form a tale alive with hope carved out of pain;

Though deeply marred, disfigured, torn, her beauty proves to me

The choice to bloom despite her wounds is what has set her free.

I read within imperfect folds a novel penned by grace,

For harshest hurts transformed, redeemed, become the very place

Where subtle hues and fragile scent, those glories forged by stress,

Release our truest, highest self – the beauty in the mess.

 

 

Her Brush With Death

frosty foliage

 

The frost that ruptures arteries

and makes her foliage weep

is also master of the brush

that earns true glory’s keep,

for as he paints the crimson tide

with blood as palette’s edge,

his lines mark beauty’s truest form,

and trace salvation’s ledge.

 

A Stand-Up Routine

pine tree

 

It will take more than a chiropractor

to straighten her out.

When life’s bones are this brittle, misaligned,

misplaced, walking with

a limp is the least of her worries. Her

backbone has been broken more times than she

can count; self-splinting

has bred tendons spliced to indifferent

saviours, treacherous

lovers bent on abandonment. Self-doubt

leaches confidence

as surely as osteoporosis

saps strength and posture;

she raises tentative fingers, branches

clawing heaven’s door,

straining against the scoliosis scars

to grasp a sliver

of the blue she’s always known she can reach

if she stands up tall.