A dryad I?

a poem of questioning, loneliness, and trying to fit in

[Authors’ note: You can listen to an audio reading of the poem, or you can just read it yourself below. Enjoy.]

A dryad I?

My garden loves me, thrives from the touch of me, in blooms and shoots in bees and butterflies. If I could plant myself maybe, feet deep in the rich soil of my over-grown garden, could I drink from the earth and raise my eyes to heaven carrying fruits in my hands and letting flowers twist my hair?

When I am sore wounded to the bone and the blood, is that what it takes for me to be a part of life? But why, God, cannot I live even delicately perched between the silence and noise between the crowds and the loneliness? How is it you could make me thusly, unable to cope, too weak to surpass what others do, and do, and do?

I would dance in the sunlight in the hands and arms of others if it didn’t pain my heart so. I would sing to the moon if I had a voice again and stood among the laughing eyes of revelers on the rooftop. For the fears that come, kiss me tenderly, moon, and bright my eyes carefree so I can sing out moonbeams.

And when comes the distant morn carry me into the sunlight so I can dance again a-time, browning warmly in the rays. Just lay me in my garden after, to cool atop the rich moist soil and in the darkened shade. I will water myself in tears and find comfort among the roots and stones and even the weeds. Maybe some day I can learn to breathe.

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