The Poet Was Born

A little girl stumbled across a beautiful tree. She had been walking in the heat of the day. The sea of leaves offered her shade. An invitation and a place to hideaway from the sun. No one knew where she was and she kind of liked it that way.

She began to climb. She enjoyed the labour of it. Stretching and reaching. Holding on and bracing. Careful. Step by step. It was fun. It made her smile, even though she was breathing harder and slowly tiring. Eventually, it was time to stop. Time to rest. 

As she looked out into the fields, she saw colour. She saw life. Her imagination skipped along. Memories of good times and sad times too. People she loved. People she had lost. Love dipping, dancing and twirling within her mind and heart.

Suddenly a stranger came along. He began to shake the tree. “How dare you climb this tree”, he spat. “This tree belongs to me”, he lied. “You should do as I say and get down from there”. He dragged her down by her feet and she was put where he believed she belonged; under his nose, under his toes and beneath the weight of his guilt and shame. And this is where she remained. Until another day.

From the cage he had built with the wicked words of his dark, wounded and decrepit heart; she could just see the outline of her faithful tree. And she still had hope. It was a glimmer. It was enough. She waited and waited. One day, she planned her escape and when the time was right, she ran like the wind. Never looking back.

There the tree stood. Not nearly as grand as she recalled. It had withered. The ground was dry. The leaves offered no shade. The branches could no longer hold her weight. So she sat. It was quiet. She was alone. It was pleasant for a moment, until his words began to circle in her mind like the beasts they were but now they were hers to tame. 

She walked away from the tree. She walked away from the memories. She looked ahead. On a peaceful day she decided to garden. She liked the way the soil felt underneath her fingernails, the smell of the earth as she dug and the sound of the water as she sprayed the land. She planted seeds and prayed for them to grow. Flowers of every colour. Fruit of every kind. She invited the birds to visit and they did. It was homely. The flicker of hope became a flame. She started to believe. She started to sing.

Another soul, on his own journey, stopped to visit her garden. Unannounced but somewhat expected. He trampled on the flowers and criticised how the fruit tasted. He sat with no sweat upon his brow. He spoke so fast that his words barely reached his own ears. His tongue flicked like a snake, as he inspected the environment that he cursed with his words. She was no gardener. She belonged elsewhere. And quicker than a flash, he stormed away. 

She sat in the tear stained dirt. She reviewed the damage. Her heart had endured this before but beneath her were now seeds. Surrounding her was still colour; scattered in fallen and crushed petals. There was beauty within the mess, softness in what had been broken and the sweet fragrance of hope was still present. Birdsong filled the air. Melodies swirled and whirled in her mind and they lifted her spirit, as she dug her fingers into the soil and prayed for the courage to labour in her beloved garden again.