Suicide snapped my soul,
Stripped bare flesh with
its strike. Shook out the fruits
of my labor.
Amid the screaming storm
of unnatural consequence, I became a
stump of misaligned
purpose. Expectations of motherhood
decomposed as the sun flowered once more,
and my neighbors shuddred off
memory of the horrific night, reaching
their branches to nurturing light, stronger.
Still, you watered my shocked roots in the daily habit
of your nurture. And my broken soul drank
in your presence as you walked amid your
mighty oaks. I begin to feel the tickling pleasure,
of sap-feeding life into what I thought dead. And
around my trunk sprung hundreds of tiny seedlings.
My broken body cradled new life.
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