I’m drawn to return to the place of my birth –
where I took my first guttural breath and found myself at last.
Dust settling in layers upon it’s first blush,
the fresh young shoots crushed, lay stunted by neglect,
devoid of the nutrient which first gave life.
I thought I’d found my Garden of Eden –
but arriving too soon, the ground unprepared and ploughed with furrows past.
Extremes of withholding drought and gushing flood,
the pendulum struck it’s final blow.
The way closed for now at least, I grow my own path
Beneath the dust an inner harvest toils
strengthening, strengthening, nourished by a place beyond thoughts,
a lixor of passion, reciprocal, replenishing.
Verdure anew with each season past.
A gentle breeze as particles stir, at first one spec then two, three.
Hurry not, slowly to unfurl the green shoots once more,
carefully, tenderly as a butterfly cupped.