She is
created like a garden on canvas,
meant to be perfect greens upon land.
Yet she refuses to shrink—
grows wings to shatter the jars
that wish to keep her.
Lips once silenced and caged
have turned into scissors,
cutting through the world
that tried to crush them.
Eyes once trained to face the ground
now dare to hold the sky.
The canvas that held the garden
is torn by wild fields
that choose to grow.
Rampant across the land,
engulfing the creatures
that stand in her way.
So—
is this the fabric’s fault,
or was the garden always wild?
— Ray Moonee