Of The Land

I think to myself, “I can’t do it all.” 

I can’t give like this. 

Anymore.

So often.

So tenderly.

I can’t give like

the land gives.

I can’t support the stem like 

the roots can. 

An intricate system of tendril extensions.

A fine collection of tangled art.

I am not fine.

The sun is too strong.

The wind, too abrasive.

External forces harry my inner voice.

The tangles are knots.

The wellness is well-less.. 

I am not well.

I summon the quick, sharp prunings of my outer leaves,

But that is all.

The only order is that in my appearance.

A façade. A fake aid. 

Am I getting enough water? 

Can the phosphorus and potassium and 

calcium cling to hollowed bones?

The single stem of my being holds a bustling, blooming bud,

and holds high on its chest a perfect gathering of pollens and petals.

It is all I can do to keep it upright. 

Should the wind blow.

Should the rains come.

Should the gopher sniff too close. 

I don’t know what will become of me.

Of us.

I’m called to find the well again. 

To drink from the reserve. 

The inner-pruning 

begins now.

Again.

And again.

I can’t do it all. 

I can’t give like this.

But I am of the land.