ginger root

i was hiding underground,
cowering in myself with the earthworms,
watching their progress, as i
constrained my own growth by
trying to stand still.
was i hoping someone
would take my picture,
make me something
by telling me who i was?
i lay static, stoid, apathetic
in spite of enough fire within
to singe myself in a breath.

you saw the bud,
my last grasping at life,
gripping the sunlight
just as steadfastly as
i was holding to the dirt:
you found me out,
tried to clean my
filthy, hating mind.
yet i, i took a bite
out of you and fled
the flightless flight of an ostrich,
into that familiar pain,
your nonverbal screams
bleeding into my own.

one day, a voice
whispered to my heart,
"come away from there,
and breath your laughter
again; be the child in love
with everything and
everyone, for the dirt
holds nothing but your
tears and gives nothing
in return."
and so i stood naked,
unfettered and alive:
the scales of ages
peeled from my skin.
my heart was vulnerable then,
and i let others cut me to pieces,
believing that i was made wrong.
the sting and stench of reproach
left me vehement and bitter.
i tasted anger and vinegar,
and marinated in this tepidness.

again love came, pried open the jar,
spilling sunlight which had been
all around me, into
the precipice of my situation.
saturated from a catharsis,
i was yet young and green,
and tasted of sweet fire
like the pickled ginger
companioned with wasabi,
that glorious fresh air.