And after that the day came,
when the threat
to stay tight
in a bud
was more agonizing
than the danger
it took
to bloom.
— Anais Nin
Bloom when you’re all set, however rough. Be charming dynamite. And
to those who spoke you dim, dismissed your stopped working green, then
took your witless creativity for manic rollicks in the drizzle– the
it called Weather was wee drama, cartoonish in the clutch of day.
Danger the lavish you have actually never ever seen. Forget how winter season initially came–
the unrhymed shudder, the gray dressed like your daddy; when,
thanks to the loud faith of wind, you could not discover your face, and the
unpleasant technique of season moved through you like a knife of ice. Threat
more. Danger smolder. Danger blood flower. Danger voice. (Like you, it too
was typically simply storm not understanding why.) Threat is why you stay,
bud like an opening hand, growing your simple destruction of tight
scent, why you’ll strut thorn, sink flytrap dogs into boring satin,
into a landscape of concrete, unloosing the concept of turf. What a
tight-clenched festivity you are, what a plump thirsting bud,
staying unswerved in your grab any sky. If your goal was
to unfurl, frighten, shimmer with damage, you’ll do that and more.
Threat hides in every inch of soil as frost or swelter, and it’s uncomfortable
the method soil can stunt the upward it firmly insists upon. You’re more than
when you were simply a sobbing error below the dirt, the
Camellia clawing for very first breath. Danger that shortness of breath. Danger
day, danger slap of sun, danger yawning broad, run the risk of the itch and choke of it,
the damned wheel of days, development and all the filthy water it took.
Be that charming dynamite. Roar out with howling, red vibrato,
and own whatever weather condition has actually done to you. Bellow, woman. Bloom.
(This poem initially appeared in You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World)
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