The Seed Within: IC Poetry

Memory of pain
calls to me,
like the last thrumming
of a bodhran.

Echo of heartbeat
and blood
over bones,
each sigh and every breath
a quiet tattoo.

Before the pain
I was
a tiny sapling,
growing towards the sunlight,
stretching for life's cooling
water of hope,
and of love.

I thought I would become
a maple tree,
offering gifts of sweetness
running from my veins,
and for my gratitude
leaves of crimson
in the fall,
a final nod
before winter.

Pain made me realize,
I was never
supposed to be a maple.
My roots watered
by my own salty tears,
growing in spite of
soil filled with sadness
and pain.

My limbs reach down
and down
touching the ground
to caress the earth,
tamped by pain
and memory.

I am the weeping willow tree,
growing in spite of the pain
to find that although I look fragile
and my leaves are shaped
like silvered tears,
I am strong.
I am a survivor.