I tend to the soil,
tilling it so that
it may breathe again.
The soft, damp loam
working to provide
us with stability and life.
I tend to the roots,
ensuring they remain
planted firmly in the ground.
They tangle in with the earth,
piercing through brown flesh and
burying themselves in their own purpose.
I tend to the stem,
tying it with a string
to a piece of thin piping.
It shows me, when it droops,
that it needs extra support
and it’s okay to fall.
I tend to the leaves,
water trickling softly as it
weighs down the edges.
I extend my hands to the sky,
stretching my fingers so that
I, too, may transform and taste the Sun.
LEAVE A COMMENT
Comments