The Bloom
The seed lived. In the grey ash it waited, buried and hibernating, surrounded by the scorched remains of its mother. In darkness until a single drop of water softened its armor, teasing its hunger. It opened tentatively, feeling its scars, searching the cinders. Weary, uncertain, but following the light tugging at its core. Its nascent, uncolored tenderness struggling through the slag but nonetheless moving.
I live, shooting free, above the ruin, awash in luxuriant green I’ve always known but never seen. And growing. Growing wide enough to be blown by harsh winds and frosted by bitter cold, to feel. Awake, spreading my long limbs, reaching for the fiery sky.
Upright, above the char which still holds me. The ashes which I’ll never leave. I spread my fingers downward into the firm, deep past. The security of this unseen earth allowing me to rise. And I rise for others, just like my mother. Allowing me to share myself and feel and touch and be touched. A place for strong animals to scratch or spend their night. These are my sensations of support.
And I soar in the wind, holding firm and steady through hot and cold, until, when the light is brightest, I shoot fuchsia and violet kisses, shining above the dark remains which I grasp and squeeze and clutch. My flowering signal that yes, I am alive, come taste my life, feel my flames, bathe in my blossoms which glow despite the dusty sky. Taste my wonderful fruit. The richness, the juices, breath me in, the life I can give. Spread this beauty so others know and taste and reach and rise.
And I collapse. My seed spreads, falling among my ashes. Crying cold for me, unblanketed, unnourished, knowing only the grey. Looking for anyone to give water, or a ray of hope through the deep layers of who I was. To remind her that she too is beautiful and big and sweet and fruitful and blindingly bright— but not yet. Someone who will coax her through hungry nights, benders, fixes, screams, walks to school without a coat, the pick-ups, the hook-ups, the shoot-ups, the dropping out, the crush, the car on E, the nights dad comes home. The grey, hungry, shivering corner no one owns. Burning with the chance to touch, to move, to sprout, to blossom in sharp, lashing winds, to shine, to spread — rooted in my remains.
