*Originally published January 2023
Scarify (verb): to cut or soften the wall of (a hard seed) to hasten germination
A sheltered self is like a seed
that cannot breathe, lying dormant
beneath the earth, warm and safe. But
this refuge is an illusion, a will-o'-the-wisp
that does not exist. Unscathed, we remain
alone.
Scars can be gateways. Pain unlocks
doors we didn't see before. Through the cracks,
sustenance trickles in, a slow drip
like a hand reaching out, offering
hope. Outside forces burn and break
but only for a moment. Temporary
struggle teaches us to unclench our fists.
We emerge weak and vulnerable, just
like all the others. Our soft insides
unfurl. At first, the wind is harsh
and the rain stings. But we adapt.
The breeze becomes a balm; the skies
open to share their wealth. Something more
grows within us. This time
we don't try to keep it hidden.
We let ourselves bloom.
Birds will take our bounty.
Woodland creatures will feast
on our leaves. A small child
will pluck from us our beauty, but
this is not the end. The ones who take from us
will learn and spread our teachings.
Our knowledge transforms into
a different type of nourishment. Our seeds
disseminate. We begin again.
WEEKEND POTPOURRI:
Currently on repeat:
A brief look at American photographer Alison Rossiter’s “Compendia,” which exposes old photographic papers to light alone. The papers themselves become the work of art.
A(nother) poem:
KNOCKOUT ROSE
By Jordan Pérez
There is nothing but this moment of purple October with its fertile dusks. The thrips have paused to watch the oaks wetten. The larkspurs have come into their roundness. Can you feel the pines flirt with the light? Would you brush a little onto my face? I arch against your palm until you cannot look away. Somehow, this has become our normal. A young girl might do anything for a hint of light on her face.