Would You Sprout for Me?

“If I tell you that I love you,
that I built your crib of soil
and have been breathing soul on you,
would you sprout for me?”

I absorbed her given breath,
but held on to my seed coat
the Witch picked me without asking.

“You were our honeymoon baby.
I approached your mother tree,
gave her three scarlet drops and a soul kiss,
before introducing you to my Heart’s music
and bringing you across the sea;

if I show you that I love you,
would you sprout for me?”

I wasn’t forgetting her rude plucking;
but the Witch kept me
nice and moist,
set in the perfect warmth of darkness.
Something inside me began to push…

When I first cracked testa
to show green,
my Witch howled tender breaths
and shook my soil
with the tapping of her feet;

I sprouted for her… just a bit.

Process Note (not on steroids): during our honeymoon, my Piano Man and I ran into a níspero tree heavy with fruit. I hadn’t tasted that kind of yum in over 20 years. I picked a few nísperos, shared them with my love, and saved the seeds. I lost all the seeds but one. The day it sprouted, I nearly lost my mind with delight.

This is what Little Nisp looked like last spring
Nispero Seedling (3)

…his germination photos (yes, I’m sure he’s a boy *cough*)…
Nispero Seedling (1)

…after he sprouted, I reconstructed his seed…
Nispero Seedling (2)

…and here is the big boy one year after he cracked through his coat seed.
Nispero Seedling (4)

***
for NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero 2015, Day 19 – I, Tree: Summon the green within, and write a poem from the point of view of a sentient tree who gets to address his or her keeper. (Um… my entry might have stretched the prompt, “just a bit”, when it comes to perspective and point of view *cough, cough* I need to do something about this— *cough*)

linked to
Poets United, Poetry Pantry 248

Climbing Trees in a Skirt

I had a threesome of girls living on the tip of my tongue. At fifteen, their separate existence was my living. On Fridays, the girl I guarded most spent hours at the library meeting gods, talking to dead people with a past, and discussing the benefits of flax seed on festering wounds. Fridays were short. Weekdays were womanned by a camouflaged girl who knew patience—library girl would’ve never survived hand-to-mind combat against nuns who believed Jesus rose to save souls while teaching math. Home girl was wicked fun and fierce. She looked hot blood in the eye, never pretended not to know, climbed mango trees wearing skirts, and cackled with the moon.

fifteenth spring of life…
tight triad of one, morphing;
she’s growing her Self

***
for NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero 2015, Day 15 – Fifteen: Write a poem about the town or city where you spent the fifteenth year of your life. If a poem about said place doesn’t move your muse, try something memorable that happened when you were that age. Introduce us to fifteen-year-old you.

Defiance, by Angie Wright

Defiance”, by Angie Wright