The ground is fertile and it yearns
for the cool current, how it burns.
The slower flow of life
reaching out, as it must do—
like a hand to light, feeling warmth, every moment new.
The tendrils and the roots seeking more
all life must fight
against the pull of sleep, rest or giving up, the pull of sight.
My eyes, my eyes
they are as open as the skies
I see the growing like no one has.
I walk in beauty, it's all around
blooms bursting open shoots from the ground
like bubbles bursting, open faces thirsting, tiny voices thirsting
I hear the flower's sound
The waking days, the bar of soap
the empty bucket, the empty sack
the glass half full, the dish to wash
the morning song, the fog of hush.
You ask me how, I cannot say
I stand apart. I am afraid.
I did not ask to grow
to leave my house and go.
I did not ask to stand
so far above my friends.
My beginnings and my ends.
I throw a stone, grey against the skies;
It waits, alone from earth and cries.
This fragile light
This fragile thread
This fragile air
The words I read
The way you reach up through the earth
You midwife the fragile birth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.