A Willow Sprout.

 A Willow Sprout.

Adaya Marcel.

Every day I walk

upon an asphalt trail.

Yucca and Acacia

frame my movement

with green and purple

and incertitude's circle.

I walk and ruffle the feathers

of a past in repose,

and trip over all of the "supposes".

But Nature always 

pulls me back

into the dimension of now,

Nature manages to show me how

to access a reserve of purpose,

Nature gives me vision beneath the surface 

of burdens related to victim-hood.

For bad or for good,

Nature proceeds to show me

the true power of the fragile being.

The gift this morning was a bump in the road,

a tiny mound rising up from beneath

four inches of heavy black oppressiveness.

From the darkness

of artificial stillness

is born the tender willow sprout.

I can shred it with my fingertips,

yet it makes its way silently

 through layer upon layer of barbs and quips.

I can stomp it with my feet,

yet it can ascend and transcend

all of the torments of the past.

The erogenous Willow

fears no impediment,

it merely searches for the Light.