the Nymphaea leaf

Nonna Vita says I should

be still

and buoyant, like

a waterlily;

the Nymphaea leaf

is but a cloud

to koi fish in

the pond:

floating weightlessly

in liminality

without a dream

or worry of

what swans

beneath

the surface calm…

or of the sky—

its breadth,

and wind,

and birdsong—

She’d say to me:

“When your mind and heart

are both at rest,

la mia Piccolina,

that’s amoré:

Life will kiss you like the scent of rain upon the vineyard,

when the sun adores the earth once more

at dawn.”

*

Nonna Vita lives her life

just like

a floating blossom—

every essence of her spirit-bloom

attuned

to what is present— to

the breaths

and beats

of now.

But I am not a lotus leaf

that drifts

above

the marshbed’s peat—

it's clouded bottom;

{nor am I}

a petaled Psalm—

a ship of palm—oblivious to

the wild tantrums and

forgotten, manic sleet

and gallows of

the sky—

I am a minnow—a shard of light in deep,

dark silt that slices though

the muck,

and murk,

and shadows;

I am a storm petrel—

a tiny bird that zips

through tempests’ troubled mist

and riled, ocean tide.

*

Nonna Vita loves

to sit

and fold herself into

quiescence—

the waterlilies of

her orchard’s pond

(become)

the cradles where she lays

her thoughts,

and needs,

and wants (to fade into)

the naught

of quiet’s softened, serene sleep—

to rise and pass

through nothing’s bioluminescence,

freed from heartache,

doubt—

left in the grace and hands

of God.

She’d say:

“When the garden of you sips

the peace

and silence of the daybreak,

la mia Piccolina,

that’s amoré:

Life will serenade you like

the soft clink of the spoon that stirs your coffee on

the bloom of Saturday."

*

Nonna Vita often

dances in the kitchen—

kneading dough,

and shelling peas,

and sweeping crumbs into

the crevice of

her palm—

all while breathing in

the bright-note scent

of lemon blossoms on

the zephyrs—

staring out the window at

the waterlilies in

her pond...

reminding me I ought to be like the

Nymphaea’s peace—

“Light as a feather…”

(she sings to me to cheer

me on.)

*

But I am not a lotus leaf.

I am the lotus’ roots that purl,

and writhe,

and curl into the

blur,

and rot,

and murk of misery’s mud—

I am a weave of want,

and wish,

and grit that grasps

for dreams—untouched—

and love.

And I am the lotus’ unfurled,

reaching bud—

the one that fears the sky

but rises, still,

to cut into the clouds

and worries of

my mind—

to spill the light onto my humble,

silt and storm-clad world—

to bloom—

one conquered hurdle,

wall,

and heartbreak at

a time.

*

-Gina C. 🧚‍♀️✨