Ground or Glass (April, 2015)

Broken is the word I guess. But I can't decide whether I'm broken like ground or like glass. Nothing can grow in broken glass. If I must break, I want to break like the ground. Like a river into the edge of a a fallen tree giving up her insides to strengthen new saplings.. Like the cycle of an unfiltered breath.. Like a high meadow opening after a cold mourning. Fingertips buried and busy in the ground. If it's up to me.

Today, the right turn of words could split me in two. Lord, have mercy. 


You fell like a tree
Took in the wild seeds 
And let them feed
Drink your stores of rain 
As you lay gazing up 
At a blurring place 

You were a seed before
Timid and born
Brushing off the dirt 
That surrounds you now 
To reach what glows
Sprung from a grandmother oak 
You'd not the thought 
To stoop down and thank

But she was gone I suppose
Gone as you are now
Like a river's surrender 
To the edge of the sea
She'd nowhere to be 
But beneath

Sometimes you are the river
Sometimes you are the sea
Today I hover here between 
A death and a tiny seed

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