“Describe your pain,” he tells me
And I cannot
How do I quantify, and is there time?
It takes patience to process
Change feeling to word.
“Describe your pain,” he says,
And I think…
It is slow and burning
Not the panic of hand on hot pan
It is the forest floor after fire
The smoldering of embers
Deep and aching
Like the damage has already been done.
Do you see the clouds rising from me?
Can you smell the smoke?
Do I burn your lungs?
Bring tears to your eyes?
Do you miss the trees?
Is that why you look away?
Or are you afraid of your own fire?
Your own pain?
Emptiness?
Maybe I am a mudslide,
Spilling my affliction onto those who cross my path.
Maybe I am bitter.
Maybe I am dead.
Maybe I rest for a while
And when you come with the gentle whispers of spring to survey my scars
I will reward you with earthy nourishment,
like sought after morels
Maybe I am growing
Maybe my malady is the soil of one billion wild flower blooms
There will be such color and life that the moon will smile brighter for the view.
Maybe you will look at me and see light and marvel at my beauty and how I rise and flower
Bringing every manner of bird and bee and being with me
Maybe I can use this life
“Describe your pain,” he tells me
“It is ashes,” I say, “and I will bloom.”