Journey to Your Deepest Self

The Last Flower

by Kathleen MacGregor Because his body sat itself down And I could almost hear… Because he thought he was alone, unwatched, unknown, Because I was home and could afford To spend some time, I opened my arms and heart to him, To us. And because I did, He spilled his worries and his sorrows- The purple bags beneath his blue eyes, His trembling hands, All the things he doesn’t know That he needs to learn To survive in the world, Trees that get bulldozed, Whales, dolphins, wolves And children in wars, The last flower. Because space opened up all around us, Time yawned and stood still And invited the troubles to linger and be tasted, And tell us what it’s like, Because we sat together In our willingness to feel, In our desire to connect, I got to hear him say, through crying eyes, “When will they know they are killing themselves?” “When will we know we are killing ourselves?” Because it seemed much too big for a 9 year old, I was shaking when I held him, And together we loved Not dimmed by grief But...

I am a Tree

And old. Fierce wind whips  ‘round me, loosens and scatters the dried leaves of weary, winter fears and leaves me almost naked.   Everyone, anyone can see me!   No full-grown leaves of modesty to cover my blemishes, the turn of my limbs, my knobby wrists and elbows. My begging arms, my ancient, grounded roots apparent.   I tremble, springing with the rush of air. Shake with the dread of being judged  too big. Cut down. Shake and shake until I know I want to grow again.   My new leaves flail, lit with an urgency to reach and move, show off, hang on, roll with the punching gusts. I begin to enjoy this ride, this freedom, and my leaves’ determined grip, their laughter as they clap green hands together....
Powered by WordPress | Designed by Elegant Themes