METROSPHERE
ROOTS Chèna Williams Poetry
I was a thing that grows. And for the first few years, I was cared for. Morning and night and morning again gentle hands touched me softly placed me in the sun, provided me with water, carefully picked out my soil, but they didn’t stick around. See, the thing about things that grow is that we simply never stop growing. We either grow or we die, we are dying the moment we are not being cared for. I was dying every second. Morning and night and morning again and mornings were hopeful but disappointing. Disappointing when a cloud hid Her mighty glow, disappointing when snowflakes kissed my forehead, disappointing when the rain pelted my branches and the wind stole my blooms and the darkness of midnight lasted for months. I was battered and starved and wilting. For years, wilting. My head lolled on the ground, my arms shriveled, my blossoms knew no nectar, my leaves knew no vibrancy, my stems knew no certainty.
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