The joints,
The places where I am tied together,
Different pieces of me branching off,
Gnarled and knotted in their transition
as they spread their story of who I am -
These spots hurt.
They ache and moan
when the storms come.
They are where I was ripped apart
to make room for a maturing me to grow.
Those spaces
in the in-between
are stretched hollow,
A gap in the defenses.
A pause before the great leap into the unknown.
The wilds in my soul.
The winds blow hard these days
and my joints are sore.
Creaking and throbbing and twinging
under the pressure.
But they will hold.
For I have new branches to grow.
I like the spacing you used. It makes the poem look twisty (like joints).
ReplyDeleteIt made me feel winter and contemplate growth cycles (specifically what happens during dormant periods).
Thanks for writing it. I enjoyed reading it.
Wendy R.M.