POETRY

Sun Spirits in the Bend of the Road

A free verse poem celebrating the cycles of spring.

The curve ahead gathers an outcropping of crepe myrtle in the crook of its flat arm. The trees are bursting with whitish fragrant buds. The scent stills me. In quiet jubilance they announce spring. They are bound by biology, micro-messaging from chlorophyll bursts, their spirits ignited by the sun.

I, too, am ignited; aflame with curiosity, amplified by fear of what’s around that bend. I do not want to pass these trees by. I do not want to know tomorrow so quickly.

His kiss delighted me. His embrace, my fold in the road. Yet I refused to foresee his departure.

Destitution? Even in the midst of spring? How is this my biology? I, too, share the sun. Shouldn’t I be laden with buds? A fragrance-filled wonder holding soil so near to concrete? Tempting passers-by to stop, and breathe deeply the richness of my resolution?

He breathed in my scent. It must be a sin, he sighed.

It is all a mystery to me how this arrangement of cells happens. Why photosynthesis does nothing for me, yet binds these leafy spirits to offer armfuls of fragrant gifts. They ask nothing in return. I am not this generous or patient. I envy the trees.

You have too many rules, he said. I only ask for respect, I replied.

Buds to bloom to seed — it seems so simple — 1–2–3…follow the sun. Yet I am so complex even the birds pass me by. They gather in gawky troops just out of site, sending forth a guttural and chirpy agent of the earth to regard me — such a strange tree that moves upon feet!

There is no photosynthesis here. There are no terminal buds at the tips of my fingers, or arranged like jewels along my arms. There are no lavish pink flutters encasing me in delight; for the trees a cyclic trope, for me a passing tease to the neurons firing and misfiring inside of my head.

You didn’t ask me a single question about myself, he complained. I am terrible at this, I admitted.

There are no nesting birds on my shoulders. They have chosen to begin life elsewhere. Perhaps I am the trope. Perhaps the trees envy me.

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Christina M. Ward is a freelance writer in cannabis, wellness, and clean beauty. Christina’s professional work has been featured in Today’s Health Science, LA Weekly, Village Voice, Men’s Health, and OK! Magazine, among others.

Christina also writes on personal journey, productivity, and relationship topics for Medium publications like this one. If you want to read more of her work on Medium use this join link for unlimited access. A portion of your small monthly dues will go to support the work of the writers and poets that you read.

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