Growing Pains

I have decided to grow this poem
Deep in the pulp. Sometimes I
Lose sight like looking up at
Dusk but instead it’s low – loose
Rooted and humming in some
Holy corner of my church,
Grounded.

I last saw my poem when I felt
Myself across a page, pushed
Fingers through green velvet and
Prayed for a heart to hold water
Without fear or burst. Listen,
Do you hear it? Murmuring in yolk
Notes as Spring shoots curl like
My toes when I’m longing

For wet summer,
Plum coloured feeling
To distract me from a seed
That opens like two clasped
Hands and says I am here,
I am your poem

Returned with little gem
Encrusted notions to warm
Holy bones and speak in
A familiar humour. You said
Green could be a kind of
Transatlantic truth, croon
Blue from root and emerge
Chanting in a known voice –

To live is to be tender and
Tend to it all the same.