Wait No More
I pause beneath a large oak tree and sift through dry leaves, searching for the tiny sprout I know is there, pushing up the grains of sand and soil, reaching for the air and light and sun, stretching and growing, reaching and pushing, like me.
I perch atop a willow branch, swaying in the breezy breeze, alight on the soft and bending green tendrilling reed, reaching out and low and long and thin, for air, for oxygen, for sunlight and space and freedom and fun, like me.
I rest a moment, to lift my chin, to lower my eyes, to clasp my hands, to cross my legs, to open my lips, and shutter my mind, to welcome the smells and sounds and feels.
I am a mother, a daughter, a partner, a lover, a woman, a child still. I am humming and pulsing with energy and connection, this skin and bone and blood just excess, covering my essence like leaves upon the forest floor.
The pine needle pierced my neck when I played music in the cemetery so long ago, but I did not create the turbulence; the gales are my soul, rising to remind me to pause, in silence, soak up the sun, leave the distractions for another day.
I waver in my writing about the pain of my childhood, because I do not wish to cause hurt, despite the deep cuts of others’ actions and choices. I pause as I billow forward, scudding across the dusty memories I have pushed aside so long. I know that it is time now to clear the debris, to allow my truths to bloom full and bold.
I will wait no more for those who remain comfortable in their shroud of leaves and dust, content to stay hidden from the light.
© Lisa Thorne 2023.
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