In Spite of Who I’ve Been

My parents didn’t know about gardening

when they planted me.

.

I lived

desperate for my land to turn

verdant and alive.

.

I reached down roots

into craggy soil,

aching for something—

I didn’t know what.

.

I consumed anything that flew over

my little stone wall,

begged it to grow,

greedy and undiscerning,

then shocked when

the seeds did not turn to flowers.

.

I guess

I don’t know much

about gardening, either.

.

For years, all I grew

were tangled, dense weeds,

knotted vines thick with thorns,

not even one fruit or flower

to summon

the birds, butterflies, and bees.

.

I was lonely.

.

Then they came,

just people walking by.

.

I heard them say

the problem was not me,

but what I let grow

within me.

.

Could that be true?

.

I ripped and dug

for weeks, then years,

while my own thorns drew my blood,

clutching, gripping,

desperate to become something new,

unwilling to accept it without

a fight.

.

I thought I was the weeds.

I didn’t want them to go.

They were the only ones who’d grown

all

those

years.

.

What if I cut away,

rooted out

all my hurt and blame,

and nothing grew?

.

I doubted that

the floral buds and

tangy sweetness

I’d always craved

could be mine.

.

But I did it anyway.

.

I had to.

.

The weeds were choking me,

even as I clung to them.

.

I tended and planted—

flowers and bushes both.

.

I hoped and despaired

in equal measure.

.

But now—much to my relief—

I’ve noticed delicate shoots unfurling,

tiny tendrils reaching for the sky

year after year.

.

The birds alight slowly

in the branches of a blueberry bush,

careful to avoid the bramble

sneaking through the leaves.

.

They resent the thorns

I’ve not yet shed,

but are grateful

to have a place

to rest,

to taste my

newfound sweetness.

.

They do not know

the work it took

to create

this peace.