from their mother
It has been wild to see what emerges from the ground of our new house this spring. Every time I look out the window there is some new color. I did not plant a thing.
Out of the mundane rises gold with all its might. Lavender like remember. Fiery red yes. Raw purple poetry, vulnerable and rejoicing.
Everything comes back. Today is not only today.
It is not all lovely. There is so much to clear away. Overgrown and in the way. Pettiness, despondency.
For two weeks I've lived on the thin layer of epidermis, sliced deep by poison ivy, my skin angry like words I can't forget. Everything comes back. Today is not only today.
And my own words and prayers are seeds scattering, erupting one day in some season or place far from now.
One day my kids will peer out the window and see some shape of me. What seeds do they carry in their heart from their mother?
Have I scattered faith and strong and true and passion? Among the mundane and daily, have I sown beloved, imagination, some shoot of fiery red? Have I broken open, dancing?
Or only passive shrubbery?
Only arguments and sighs?