By Maria Duran
in spring i will crawl upwards towards the sun
i will be dirt and worms. i will be warm and known.
for now it is winter and
my heart is the shape of a seed. something small and easy to crush, something the earth is digesting.
sticks and stones
are not so hard to swallow if you have the throat of a river.
a curve of a neck the bend of a slope.
a delta – slit gathering on the angle of a collarbone.
an adornment, full of low vegetable croonings.
the sea-songs teach us in their rasping voices:
what is there to be done but to make beauty
out of swallowed stones?
but that is an old lesson. and these shores
are not so worn yet. we, who are alive, as alive as the
sweeping clouds, so declare: there will be a new season,
there will be drought, and there will be plenty.
so if the land goes stale it is nothing strange; all
things must die, even the grass from the other side of the creek.
rivers and necks and stones
you see, are not the only old stories here.
what is there to be done, goes the song,
and the tide turns with a new verse – yes, what is there to be done but to strike the stones into sparks, nurture a wildfire in our lungs? summer is long and lonesome and the woods
are empty of bird song. the water will bleed out all its sea-wise bitterness, and turn sweeter than the first river. this land will catch fire pretty as a song.
and afterwards the old people will gather around under the green shadows of the courtyards and remark that the plants that come from the ash grow taller than others.
About the author:
Maria Duran is a writer and researcher, as well as a passionate art lover. Her work has been previously published in Erato Magazine and Vagabond City.