Summary

This web content presents a reflective free verse poem by Christina M. Ward, focusing on the theme of healing and inspired by #flowerweek, where the author grapples with solitude and the process of healing amidst nature's beauty.

Abstract

The poem "This is Where They All Come" is a poignant piece that delves into the intimate journey of personal healing. Set against the backdrop of a serene environment, the poet conveys a sense of unsettlement and the need for solitude. The narrative unfolds with the author taking walks, observing nature, and ultimately finding comfort in the presence of flowers and bees. The poem is a response to the #flowerweek challenge, which encourages the expression of thoughts and emotions through poetry centered around flowers. Christina M. Ward's contribution to this challenge is characterized by vivid imagery, emotional depth, and a connection to the natural world that mirrors the internal process of recovery and transformation.

Opinions

The author expresses a deep connection to the solitude necessary for healing, suggesting it is an inherently personal and sometimes solitary process.
There is a sense of disorientation and search for stability, as the poet describes wobbly knees and feet that seem to have lost their way.
The poem reflects an appreciation for nature's indifference to human struggle, as symbolized by the bees that take no notice of the author's presence.
The scent of flowers and their robust presence represent a path toward peace and hope for the author.
The act of writing and sharing the poem is seen as a part of the healing process, with the #flowerweek challenge providing a framework for expression and community engagement.
The poem suggests that the beauty and resilience of nature, particularly flowers, can have a therapeutic effect on the human spirit.

POETRY

This is Where They All Come

a free verse poem on healing, #flowerweek

This is where they all come I am told,

but I have not, — The mulish solitude of healing, the obstinate need to carry my own wings forth — not that healing needs explaining or justifying or permission to bring you to your knees —

I hear the whispers in the curtains here, feel the stirring of presence. Sometimes a quiet shift here and then a turn — to ghost.

I am unsettled. I take walks.

I cannot keep it at bay.

I drag the petals of myself back into form, away from thoughts of you.

They all come here to heal, I am told, as I carry three-drawers worth of clothes and my life packed into Sequined zipper bags.

I place it all on the upstairs bed. I look for the outlets to charge up my life. I pick a chair. We decide on dinner. I wipe the tears from my chin.

I later scout the woods on wobbly knees and feet that don’t seem to know where they are, not anymore.

The bees come for the trees here. They swarm atop the ridge line, in and out of white-washed boxes, their drawers not needing cleaned out to make space for two trash bags of clothes and 4 pairs of dusty shoes scraped from the back of the closet.

I didn’t choose any of it with care.

There was no —this! My favorite shirt! Or this! — I need this thing to be with me.

Lauren Daigle sang the tears from me in the car and now — now I hide with bees.

The bees take no notice of me. I can hear the brook, meandering at the bottom of the ravine.

The trees keep peace with me. A box turtle scuttles, tail-end out into the crackle of leaf and hole.

For a moment, I am alarmed. Every sound sends me flashes of heat, anxiety reaching its peak of me. I think I must sleep.

The stars gather moonlight and scatter it back to me. I catch it between thoughts. It is very quiet here.

I wonder how it got to be so dark, now that time makes no sense to me.

How quickly nighttime can usurp the day.

The scent of flowers is so thick on the air. The marrying of notes nudging me toward peace,

hope.

They are here in planters, in buckets — lush and pregnant with possibility, alive with the activity of nectar on tiny feet and wings.

They are robust, the reds of geraniums in their deep green ruffles, the wide-handed reach for sun in the shade

I bear it up, on weary heart.

My wide-hearted yearning for sun in the midst of

shadows

Oh, these flowers!

Gather me up with the redolent scent of thee. Carry me from bee to bee. Your wings are enough for what is left of me.

This is a poetic response to the following prompt:

Thank you to Tapan Avasthi for this #flowerweek challenge.

Guidelines: ↦ Recommended theme of poem is flower ↦ Any form that lets you express your thoughts and emotions ↦ One poem daily in the first week of July ↦ Publish your work with any Medium publication ↦ Please use hashtags #floral-week or #Floral Week if you’re sharing it on any social media platform

Please tag Tapan Avasthi to show your participation and support for this lovely idea.

For my #flowerweek flower garland, I previously added this poem:

When Petals Fall

A metaphorical free verse poem for #flowerweek

medium.com

Christina M. Ward is a poet and naturist from North Carolina. She is transported by the scent of flowers.