From this, forests grow

I wondered if the Oracle would give me a cadralor today.

From this, forests grow

The garden shrinks,
cringes from the snapping of the cold,
bubbles with mud boiling from worm holes.
A wren calls in its fierce voice,
and for a moment, winter listens.

There are always shadows,
even in the crook of your arms, and tears are never far.
You smooth my hair from my face,
gentle as that lost look.
There. They fall.

For some, the threads are tangled,
and worship is tied to the kite string of abuse.
Their hands tangled with caresses
strike purple bruises
across the same trembling skin.

Show me how sleep is not death,
the coloured mists within the darkness,
and walk with me where we were happy.
Look with me for the prints of our feet
beneath the fallen leaves.

Sprung from crawling, rotting earth,
petals curl and unfurl to elaborate the rose
and the music of its scent. Remember that,
when the ocean sky roars and pours only bitterness—
stormlight and sunlight are cut from the same cloth.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

10 thoughts on “From this, forests grow”

    1. I’m pleased you like this. It surprised me. Sometimes the Oracle pulls out all the stops. It’s getting wintry here and I’d been watching wrens darting about through the bushes, the leaves whizzing past, and thinking of walking through the fallen leaves on my own, the different emotions. She brought it all together.

  1. I was rocked back in my chair by this poem, Jane. It’s one of the best I’ve read recently, I think.

    Love this so much –

    For some, the threads are tangled,
    and worship is tied to the kite string of abuse.
    Their hands tangled with caresses
    strike purple bruises
    across the same trembling skin.

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