A poem of self-enquiry

I’m digging.

 

Gently brushing soil away

to expose my roots.

 

I quake, despite the delicacy of the touch,

from fear and anticipation.

 

How fragile, how beautiful,

how complex I appear.

How mysterious.

 

People wait for my fruit, my seeds.

some part of me they can share in.

They’ve been patient.

 

How I fear that my seeds will be bitter,

My fruit sour, unripe.

 

I can water and nourish my roots,

breathe soft endearments to my leaves.

 

But I can’t rush the ripening.

For it depends on soil, and sun,

And wind, and rain, and bees.

It depends on love.

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