Growth

Hands I had not known planted me between the roots of others whom I’ve come to love. I am their harvest, not of gold or pride, but of their own growth. Watered with tender care, with tears they refused to hide, I found my footing in the soil, and then began to grow.

I found their stories in cracks of stone, memories of growth etched in times gone by. I delved deep with those who’d gone before me, and stretched my infant arms towards the Sun. I felt, for the first time, the golden finger tips of those I’d known who’d died. The grief of thousands of years, the joy of still sunset moments, the peace of those who’d fought so I’d have room here to grow.

Seasons came and went, never asked me for my pardon, always called to my attention the places I wanted to go. Growth was slow, raw, my own. Now I feel the ache of being truthful as others take root in the cracks beneath my feet. Every step I thought was broken, some which split apart and were ripped away from me, gave room for them to grow.

Now my hands grow thin from time, and my fingers tilt lower to the beauty I see in the cracks beneath my feet. This is my harvest, from tears falling from the sky, with the hug I give to those planted by hands I’ve come to know. I don’t treasure it by the numbers, I don’t measure it by my pains. I hold it in my heart, with the growth of years they haven’t seen. For every step I thought was broken has led me to the sky I’ve come to trust.