Watching a weed grow into a shrub, the shrub solidifying into a tree was a period of watching things go according to plan. It mirrored a time when in my own life I believed things to be moving according to plans.

But solid bark does not withstand the winds and storms

the ossified shell breaks

in shatters

now I’m watching the grass be carefully mowed around the fallen body of what was before

Everything hurts

hurts

Everything grows

grows

hard branches jut out at odd angles not connected with anything

I grow limbs not yet covered in bark, supple and flexible

able to sway with the wind

I have no fixed shape any longer

¶ at what point and through what processes can I encourage new tentative growth within me?

¶ can I take wisdom from plants and allow the wild parts of myself to sprout anew in spring?

¶ can I share in their wisdom that roots anchor you in a place, but also offer nutrition, sustenance and kinship through a myriad of connections and

networks invisible to the distracted gaze?

Everything hurts.

Everything grows.