The saying “Bloom where
you’re planted” served
her well for years
She put down roots,
Pale green sprouts stretched tall
Tiny buds formed, eager to unfurl
She wanted to grow, grow, grow
Lately she’s been wondering,
Can I still bloom
when the climate changes?
Or if the garden grows too crowded?
What if there are toxins in the ground?
What if there’s another place
with richer soil
more space
and a more temperate climate?
Few perennials dare uproot
themselves
Some wither
Some are crushed
She’s always had trouble letting go
Time ticks by — the hour is late
Too long she’s blamed herself
for failing to thrive in poor conditions
She will look upon herself with love
Call herself precious
She’ll be more careful this time
She’ll stick her hands in the dirt and plant
herself where she can bloom
Trust the Master Gardener
Turn her face towards the sun
Tag Archives: spring
How do you pinpoint growth?
With a measuring stick and a scale?
Spreadsheets and pie charts?
Photographs from years past?
Words you wrote last spring?
How do you see growth when brown leaves cling to the forest floor, when snow is forecast, when a new season swirls beneath the surface, seemingly hidden from view?
In hands that can hold their very own umbrella?
In pony legs that race across the court lickety-split?
In the new paths you explore — and the sunset’s tangerine glow?
In spiky onion shoots, the first to rise from a barren garden?
All March you’ve been searching for flowers, something like the white ones from the yard you left behind when you moved last year.
Last week orange flames danced in the woods outside your apartment. Smoke billowed and plumed, conjuring memories of bonfires past. A prescribed burn is what the city called it. Prescribed burns are healthy for forests; the devastation makes room for new vegetation. You know what it’s like to be burned though. You figure it will be weeks before you see anything bloom from the ashes.
So, when your first flower of spring arrived at your doorway, in the hands of an old neighbor, you blushed. An overdue housewarming gift, she said. Delicate and purple, it fragrances your kitchen.
How do you pinpoint growth?
In sleeping peacefully through the night?
In the “big boy swing” perfectly holding his body?
In the way he climbs trees with ease?
By examining your reflection — with new lines and silver strands forming — and simply … accepting it?
In embracing new beginnings. In forgiving yourself.
By celebrating the orchids in your midst.
// For more reflections on spring and growth, read “Hanami” by Melissa Kustche, “A Blessing for the First Warm Days” by Kimberly Knowle-Zeller, “Losing my hair” by Fay Gordon and “Five Stages of Midwest Grief When Exiting Fake Spring and Entering Second Winter” by Jessica Folkema.
Erin Strybis 