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Posts Tagged ‘burr’

Sometimes a Prayer

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on October 9, 2025| 2 Comments »


 
 
Sometimes a prayer
arrives like a stock phrase—
like well-worn beads of syllables
others have strung into smooth
and beautiful strands.
But the prayers that have saved me
are the ones that arrive like burrs.
They hurt a little, hook into my skin,
such stubborn, dogged prayers.
They make me a living agent
of spreading their seeds.
And with every move I make,
they don’t let me forget
they are here.

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Afraid My Actions Would Hurt Someone Else,

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on April 28, 2024| 7 Comments »


 
 
my chest filled with anxiety,
as if burrs grew in my bloodstream,
sharp barbs catching on my skin from inside.
 
I wanted the feeling to go away.
Wanted to know I could make everything okay.
And the burdock dug deeper in,
 
clinging to my heart as it would
to a sock or a sleeve or a dog.
Inside the burr was a seed of fear:
 
I can’t protect others from harm.
And my teacher said, her voice warm,
Let the fear of repercussions be here.
 
But the longing to control kept
digging into me with spines sharp and long.
Include it as part of the whole, she said.
 
And I thought of wild burdock
with its big soft leaves,
how naturally it grows in a field.
 
How it’s evolved, a product of life itself.
How the root is used to heal.
And I was stunned by the fact
 
that burdock belongs to the field
as much as wheatgrass,
dandelion, wild iris, wild rose—
 
the burr one part of the whole.
And I knew myself as field.
I imagined inside me
 
the grass, the sunflower, the vetch, the trees,
and the uncomfortable burr of anxiety,
which, though painful, belongs.
 
I focused on whatever it is
that holds it all. Inside me,
acceptance opened like a song.

*with thanks to Joi Sharp for her words (in italics)
 

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