Today I talk to the broccoli sprouts.
I kneel down beside their bed.
You can do it, I tell them.
I don’t mention that every summer
there is a hail storm that will
puncture and tear their leaves,
that bits of their green will litter the soil.
Though the sprouts are less
than half an inch tall,
the leaves already look tough—
like thick four leaf clover.
The hail, though, will be tougher.
Perhaps I don’t want
to tell myself how tough things will get.
Would rather encourage. Would rather play.
Would rather revel in the day’s sun.
But today, there’s no lying to the self—
the inner hail has already come;
my leaves hang in tatters.
All around me, flower petals
are fallen, scattered.
Out of season, widespread wreckage.
There is an inner knowing, though—
one that needs no one else
to encourage it. It knows to grow,
to grow despite the damage, to grow,
because damage. To grow. It knows
to grow, because that is what we are here to do,
our new leaves coming in to support the old,
to support the whole, every bit as vulnerable,
and green, so green.
Some days your poems feel like a big cleansing breath. This is one of those days. Thank you for this beauty.
thank you, Heidi … whew. inhale, exhale. I just did. thanks.
Inspiring…..so needed! And who would have thought of BROCCOLI SPROUTS????
ha! well, and it occurred to me later that i was having a conversation yesterday with someone about how kids cartoons vilify broccoli–figured someone better stand up for the cruciferous vegetables!!
A truly inspirational and encouraging word.Thank you, Rosemerry. May we see the hail as simply breaking off what needs trimming in us, and open our arms for the growth still to come. Bless you. <3
thank you. Still, it’s painful. And crushing. And then we rise. We rise.
Indeed it is, of course, but the rising will come. We have hope.
the rising will come … the rising is already coming, even in the hailstorm …