Girasol

United States

Genderqueer science fiction writer and enthusiast, poet, full time nerd, cartoonist, gardener and dog lover. Currently attempting to make my room into a tropical greenhouse.

Message from Writer

"No one is going to give you the education you need to overthrow them. Nobody is going to teach you your true history, teach you your true heroes, if they know that that knowledge will help set you free."
- Assata Shakur

Heartbeats

October 5, 2018

PROMPT: Water Drop

12
On a frosty October morning, I walk to a field 
    And lie flat on my back in the dewy grass, 
You can hear, 
If you listen — 
            The birds, singing 
You can smell, 
On the breeze: woodsmoke 
Beneath this soil 
            There is something 
Moving like the blood rushing through me 
    Pumping 
            I know 
There is water here, flowing downhill
                Flowing, 
If 
            I close my eyes, 
                I can see the rivers, 
Blue veins on a wrinkled hand 
                        Lying here 
In the dewy grass, 
            The raindrops, splashing across my face and 
                   When I turn on the faucet in my mind 
        I am reciting a sermon 
                        In my mind, 
I am giving thanks
                For water that flows, 
                        Wet and clear
        I do not forget the memory, 
            Not my own, but someone else’s, captured in black ink
Of sand, pouring 
                Until it filled the kitchen sink and spilled over 
            Onto the tiled floor 
                I do not forget the memory — not my own
But someone else’s 
               Captured in the pages of a book
Of dry ground, 
        And no well for thousands of miles
                I do not forget the memory, not my own
            But someone else’s 
                        Of water that blazed 
Into burning 
Brilliance          when struck 
                With 
A single match, 
                            I do not forget the memory, 
            Not my own, but someone else’s 
Captured in scribbled letters 
                        Of water that betrayed, 
        Water that brought illness 
                                            not strength 
I give thanks 
                    For the water that flows clear and cool
        Just enough and not too much
                        I give thanks for the water
That flows down from mountain springs 
                                And tumbles from ever grey skies
To land in the palm of my hand, 
            Here in this city, 
        We have struck clear blue gold: here we are all kings
                    Collecting treasure in the empty bowl on the back porch
                                When I was a child, I used to pretend
That the drops on my cheeks were tears
            It made me feel somehow 
        Bigger
A part of the mother 
                            Beneath my feet, my back as I lie in the grasses 
The land which bleeds this water
                    Into our shaking, cupped palms
                            Until we milk her dry
                leaving her with a dusty husk 
And broken promises 
                            I give thanks for the water. 

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  • October 5, 2018 - 10:34am (Now Viewing)

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2 Comments
  • Girasol

    Thank you Sofia! So kind to say! I don't ever intend to!


    almost 2 years ago
  • Sofia Miller

    you've really got something special. please, don't stop writing <3


    almost 2 years ago