Finding My Roar

We won’t be seduced by the mildness of your listening.

 

Too ferocious to be constrained by borders in light and shade

we shimmer in the mirror,

palest by far reflection of light on the threshold.

We know impossible spaces and how to tame them –

those feet of bronze and ivory ashen after all;

when the fog lifts, it takes the mountain with it;

when no one understands, all you can do is speak to yourself.

 

Once your purple heart was surrounded by green rays

and swayed on its supple stalk.

Watch us now! It’s more painful than it looks to be so

dignified. November fast-freezes

our roots, leaves us taut and tense like a ballerina mid-stretch.

Prickly leaves dry up in our hands

gathered in prayer.

Happy Martisor Day, ladies – hope of spring springs eternal! Photo courtesy of Travel Away.