Bearing Fruit

I wandered into you, seeking a place to

lay my head, a harbor to dock my

soul, a ground, sturdy enough to

grow my roots, I felt my way through

weeds, traveled un-tarred roads, fell

into bramble patches that scarred the

depths of my soul. So much so, my

nomadic roots cannibalized tears to make

dew in starved lands.


You saw my journey, roots hanging by

fibers, some dried to bone, you took the

sheers and preened them off, made room for

new roots, spoke life, shed love, watched it gather,

and gave nourishment to many times refurbished

joints. Laid with me a porous sponge. Said you would

bury your doubts, and fears, pray for something new, more

fresh, clean, something to build you when you



Fears and doubts soaked into my roots, mixed

with the harshness created from the roaming

genes. Attacked by antibodies, wrapped and

swallowed whole, those fears lost, the doubts

were re-purposed into dreams, not deferred but

renewed. I waited for the first  bud, and lost

leaves, shaking, anxious, waiting for you to see

the expected fruit.


You ran your hands through, felt the smooth

skin, admired the shine and give, you plucked your

choice, said it resembled a lasting sin, took a bite, closed

your eyes, reminisced, and saw new beginnings. Fear to

hope, while thoughts of death spoke now to food for your

soul. Your thumb and forefinger met, separated by thin

cased fluid you gifted to flow, I watched the thought, saw

it grow, knew I would stay watered, you needed the fruit.

You needed to be whole.



Liquid love, trickled from the spring, tightly wound, nursed by need, falling into insatiable containers, searching holes, but it’s soaked within pores. Trickled turned steady flows, no longer soaking pores, but nursing hands, and searching mouths. Gather in the folds,


Be kind to the edges, preen to
perfection, feel the hills, tenderly
exploring, meeting weakened
points. Eyes blind, mouth
full, ears filled


Relief, the flow a sigh, constant,
a moan? Grateful to be free, found
cared for. Account for the pores, where
is each one, within the hungered
grasp, belly consuming, a never
ending thirst.


Stuffed back in, weakend points
forgotten, fluid smoothed edges
ignored, shrubbery to replace
careful hands. Where has my
gardener gone, has the flow of
love stopped in the flow of time.

Who am I anymore?

Growth is such an interesting process. It uproots me sometimes, almost completely. I find myself in midair with nothing beneath me that I can feel or grab hold of. It’s almost as if I don’t belong to anything. Which, when you think about growth, about enhancing, and about discovering yourself, it’s a positive. It gives me the freedom to truly choose who I am and who I want to be, and it let’s me have absolute control over my range.

But that upended feeling, that loneliness in the process can almost be debilitating if not checked properly. It’s like walking a fine line between death and enlightenment, and I wonder if that’s the whole point. To push you so far past your comfort zone that you don’t know if you will make it. That way, when you do, you never have to look back at who you were and say that was better. You can never again be satisfied with that level of thought, or ambition because it is no longer sufficient for your life.

So when I grow, I really put my all into it. I hate the process, but I give in to it with everything I have. If that means I have to be emotionally unstable, unsure, sad, depressed, elated, enraged, or anything else on the spectrum, I ride that wave until I can’t anymore and then I let my board carry me the rest of the way. I let my will, my want and desire to be better and to make changes, push me through to the next stage of my growth.

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