I know that somewhere there’s a narrow way
Where flowers dance and wayward sunbeams play
Where fields are not disturbed by gusts and gales
I want to find this place I know in tales
And ask the gardener who’s in this world
To see the plans for all His works unfurled
To know the fields I’ve loved, once blown apart
Have settings in bouquets and works of art
Yet hevel now is all that I can see
That brought and took and gave and snatched from me
Yet I will still search out the deeper roots
Which sturdy rise up into stronger shoots
Where all there is to feel is peaceful breeze
The most disturbance there is just a sneeze
Where jasper walls protect from every fear
And never more again will be a tear
For though there’s lies upon the gale
The still, small voice will never fail
written in consideration of uprooted by Laur Brown
just go to the link
in every face, a garden calls my name,
a hundred blooms that somehow look the same,
i kneel to them as if i’ve always known
the shape of petals i have never grown.
the wind is always rising through the field,
it knows exactly what i will not yield,
it threads between each stem i try to save
and teaches soft things how to misbehave.
i bend with them, i learn their fragile art,
to open wide and offer every part,
to drink the light no matter how it leaves,
to bloom for hands that never will believe.
it would be kinder just to stay in place,
to choose one patch of slow and certain grace,
but stillness feels too close to being missed,
like roots that tighten into empty fists.
so i become the pollen in the air,
a drifting yes to anyone who’s there,
i promise every passing shade of sky
that i am yours, although you won’t ask why.
the wind is always rising, always near,
it sounds like something almost said, not clear,
it pulls at every fragile thing i start
and scatters what was never theirs to part.
it tells me nothing living gets to stay,
that love is just a softer form of fray,
that petals only prove how things can break,
how beauty leans toward everything it takes.
still watch me- how i turn into the storm,
how giving feels the closest thing to warm,
each bloom i touch grows thinner at the seam,
each color fades into a borrowed dream.
and when the field is quiet, stripped and bare,
no one can name the pieces missing there,
they only say how bright it was before-
and never ask what all that brightness tore.