Growing

prose poem by Michalann Clark

I am a tree, growing each year. I suffer many storms, hoping each one will pass, but I always relish the rain from it in hopes it will help me to grow. I feel the sun on my leaves; I soak in its warmth. It is a rare ordeal for me to feel the sun. I grew in the shadows where it is often cold and meek. I try to stretch my branches through the darkness, but I find it difficult and tiring, sometimes wondering why I try reaching at all. I see the other trees, basking in their own piece of the sun, not realizing the warmth they have, and what it is like to not feel that warmth at all. I keep growing. I start to change in each season, not realizing until it is too late that the leaves I worked so hard to grow are falling and I will be bare and empty for weeks; being swallowed by the cold shadows, waiting for the sun to come again. The sun somehow finds its way back. I always wonder how I can keep going after that long dark winter, until I feel the sun’s warmth and realize I will never stop waiting for the sun to come again. I always hope that the shadows will fall away, and I will finally have my own basking place in the sun. Though I know I will not; It is not the sun’s fault, I do not blame the sun, and I do not blame the shadows either. I may lose my leaves and the winter may take my color and the night may take my sun, but I will never blame it on them. It is simply life. So, I will keep fighting for my sun, I will keep growing my leaves, I will keep stretching my branches, because without that hope I would have no purpose. I start to feel people try to cut me down. I am told I am not wanted, that I do not belong to this place, that I will never have this place and I do not have any right to it. They do not always say this in words. They say this by the axe they take to my trunk I fought so many years to grow. With each swing of the axe, I wonder if it will be my tipping point. I remind myself that I still have those glimpses of the sun, and though I never enjoyed the winters, at least I can say I survived and grew from them, that the shadows that try to swallow me have not fully succeeded. I am still here. My leaves still growing back, my branches growing higher and my trunk thicker. My roots grow longer with each passing season. As time flies, the people leave and new ones come, some saying I am beautiful as they try to cut me down. They say sorry as the axe pierces my trunk. I feel sad for them, but I do not blame them. Though sometimes I wonder if I should just give in and tip over. That they will appreciate me then. I will not though. My sun keeps me strong, though little and far time in between, my sun motivates me. I will keep growing. Do not worry, my sun. This is my life; I will not let it be taken from me, I will not be cut down, I will not let the shadows swallow me or the loss of my hard-earned leaves get to me. I will fight, I will grow, and I will remain in hopes of the next time I will feel your warmth and bask in your glow.

by Katherine Brueggemann

He watches rain pour upon the flooded valley below. An umbrella of branches stretches above, swaying limbs and dripping leaves failing to cover the sound of water roaring against the shore.

An orange flame emerges; the click of his lighter is drowned by the oppressive devotion of the storm. The clouds churn and knead in volatile shapes, overshadowing his unstable core.

A waft of smoke is sighed, soundless, waved away by the wind with haste and stifled by the relentless downpour.

The erratic, lashing chaos grows calm, contained. Volume tamed, the din lulls into a humble whisper, reduced to a tentative slumber.

He watches rain pour upon the flooded valley, and finds his river rapids silenced by the roaring storm.

by Mason Hassane

I question myself, I question my decisions, I question my desires. I go back and forth, never moving from this faltering place. A place where I am a stranger to myself.

I feel as though I am ignorant to the winds that have gone cold as I await another spring. The sun has not shown on my back nor has the cold left my skin but still, I wait.

Why do I wait?

Maybe it is hope, or maybe it is fear, but fear of what? I ask myself in spite of these truths.

Maybe my hopes and ignorance mask the cold winds of truth and maybe soon, I will freeze to death.

Feeling everything but, my certainty is vague.

My willingness has grown tired and my innocent mind has yet to vanish.

Perhaps soon I shall turn back.

I have traveled so far to get here, I have climbed mountains and fought fires to reach this point.

I have been cut and burned but I pushed through the snow. All for this but, this is now nothing.

What I thought I would find has left me, for I have taken too long to get here.

Am I now coming to see that this journey has done nothing but strip me of my dignity?

I am weak, I fall to the ground in defeat.

Maybe I took a wrong turn, maybe I have gone too far, or maybe I have not yet gone far enough.

Maybe I never should have taken this path at all.

Will I turn back?

Will I sit here in the snow and freeze to death?

Anger strikes me but sadness quickly follows.

Why am I certain of nothing?

Even after all this time I have no tracks to follow, no sun to lead me. At this time, in the dead of winter, I have a bit of fight left in me that the sight of spring will see this through but, this time there will be no spring. It should have come by now. I have no choice but to end my journey here. For I have lost something that I was so close to finding. Now that the winds have calmed, I shall wither away in the snow and be drifted off where I will be planted in another place, at another time, for another reason. There I will start again only with the teachings of yesterday and the will for tomorrow.