WRITTEN BY AYESHA ASAD
Initially published in Green Blotter
What thin seed
plucked from its yielding stem
like the gaseous stars balanced
Earth’s head glimmers
in the slick, darkened grass,
flinching under brays and brackish peals
and muddy soles –
clasped in Crow’s dark beak
to perfume the gale?
To be trodden upon, to wither, to flutter,
to sail past choked trees and ashen sediment,
to witness Sun’s ephemeral warmth,
to draw its last untainted breath –
Let the raccoons scour, the blue-jays shroud,
the chipmunks nick at chestnuts,
discarded golden thorns bellowing their existence.
And yours, little spore,
yours lies in your germination,
hastened by the plump, childish fingers
who pluck out your petals, your perfume, your ornaments –
those things of beauty.