mending

I planted you, a tender thing,
small roots stretching beneath my hands,
watched your green leaves start to cling
to earth I swore I’d understand.

But as you grew, fierce and wild,
I let my own storms cloud the sky,
plucking petals, bruising mild
stems that reached too high, too shy.

I pulled at weeds that weren’t there,
overwatered until you drowned,
let shadows settle, stripped you bare,
then blamed the soil, blamed the ground.

And each time you bent under me,
I knew my touch was rough, unkind—
yet somehow, it felt strange, not free
to watch your edges start to unwind.

Now I stand in the tangled dark,
kneeling in soil that holds your shape,
hands stained green, still aching, stark,
praying to bring you back, to wait.

If I could pull new light to you,
with gentle hands, and softer care,
I’d tend to every leaf and root,
to see you rise, bright, blooming there.