Poetry

Onward we go

Green, the smell of pine

as we tread needles into the ground

on our stroll about the forest on the edge of the year.

The new can be seen from over the way,

only the trickle of an old river

keeping it separate now.

Yet in a few hours,

the trickle will stop,

and the seedlings of trees will shoot up into saplings

in a whoosh of  breath, colour

and cheer.

We will step together, hand in hand,

onto the fresh forest floor

ready to take in its delights and terrors

as one.

Poetry

Patchwork

It’s said that every seven years,

our bodies change.

We shed who we were and take on new thread

to spin into a suit of current experiences

and timid goals.

 

We can’t lose our previous selves completely.

 

At a deep, stubborn level,

our essence never morphs.

It lies in wait

gathering parts it likes

and casting aside those it doesn’t,

so that eventually, when the time comes

to accept our truest nature,

we can be as comfortable in our own skin

as we were before the influence of others took hold.

 

We are a patchwork of our lives,

well worn in places,

freshly pressed in others

and often oddly put together.

 

But we are human.

We are flawed.

And that’s what makes us.