walls Poem, by Ryan Robson-Bluer, at My poetic side

come spring, the bed is tangled

with the shoots of herbs and flowers,

covering spaces in the dirt. before,

the earth buzzed with a motherly fever,

the pulse of something new – you, a butterfly

in a jar, the underside of a tapestry,

bright tails hanging out. you wait,

feeling only the weight of yourself –

a heaviness she knew, and carried well.

kicking at the space, blooming outwards,

held between the very walls that wanted

so desperately to free you – she taps

at the glass to see you flicker. you were

a bulb pressed into winter soil; come spring

you haven’t broken the surface, but found

your own season, somewhere softer, quieter.

walls