A speck of green on the sheer cliff face,
a weed seed caught there, in rock growing,
finding its way on a puff of air,
nourishing itself on rock-dew,
turning toward the light,
triumphant over adversity.
A weed-child, still clinging to bare rock,
I question my position and my fate.
Why couldn't I have seen the stony tyranny
clearly enough to choose a softer spot?
Why couldn't I have grown wild,
instead of spindly and pale?
If I had known kindness, would I have been
free of the aridity that withers my heart?
Could my expression have ranged further
than a few late-blooming words on lined paper?
I rummage for understanding of how it all was,
the better to deal with how it has become.
I search for advantage and meaning.
Surviving the unyielding rocky bosom,
leaflets waving like triumphant fists declaim,
oh, yes, I have a place here.
I have a wide and spectacular view.
The fertile valley and far hills lie before me,
spread like a welcoming carpet.
The sun visits me daily.
Seeds have wide-flung opportunities
for abundant growth.
When I fade, I'll see the crimson sunset,
and my leaving will be
as gentle as my coming was hard.
Weeds are known for their ability
to take root in sparse soil,
and for their prolific progeny.
Some have healing properties,
known to those in tune with nature.
Some nourish, all have purpose.
If you are a word-seeding, healing weed,
perhaps we are sisters.
If so, allow me to tell you what little I know.
I offer all I possess to my kin. I wish you well.
Whatever your soil, take root,
send out shoots, claim your turf,
and let no one tell you no.
Announce yourself sweetly,
with an herbal perfume.
Let yourself be discovered
and your value become known.
Then, in the fullness of your being,
let yourself be used up, stalk,
stem, root, leaf and seed,
by kind souls who ask, with respect,
to be enriched and healed
by partaking of your essence.
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(C) 1996 Sojourn Magazine |
