When the acorns start to flood the sidewalk, I like to scoop up the very best and
collect them for fairy gardens.
I rub them against the pavement until it stains yellow, letting me know I
can begin to scrape out the paste-like pollen.
The hollowed-out shells represent anything my young mind sees; I create dining
room scenes, platonic picnic dates, and bunkbed sleepovers.
Wings sprouting from my cocoon. Picturing myself better. A life directed only
by the changing winds.
Will my childhood dreams play out like the movies?
Do I really end up by the sea? Will I learn to love how I live?
Esther Greenwood's fig tree has nothing on the acorn trees of my youth.
"Let God into your hearts," preached in unison to the strangers we spend each day soliciting.
I'm giving back to my community in the name of Christ,
but nothing in me believes in some higher power.
I search their faces for a hint of true faith; they must hold the same longing to confirm their deepest desire - is any of it real?
The pull-out couch in our too-full hotel room becomes my haven.
I plead at the water-stained ceiling to give me any sort of sign.
The incessant questioning with no real response forces my brain to sludge; a caterpillar melting in its chrysalis.
Wasps swarm my growing cocoon
before I get the chance to end the cycle.
Am I doomed to a life of mediocrity?
It’s senior year of college, and rather than looking to the future,
I can only manage to pick apart a past that doesn’t lead to my dreams.
Instead of new possibilities, I’m weighted by all those I have missed.
There is no rubric. No underlined rights and wrongs anymore.
God, it’s Me again. Is there a way to know it all works out in the end?
It is written, yes I know, but where, when is it written?
I’m scared, God, it’s Me again.
I wish her well. The girl with the eyes of lamb.
The one stuck between what has and what will.
There’s nothing you can do. It’s already been done.
Something can be done – blind faith in an already complete destiny
ensures a life of peace. I’ve never believed in God, and neither has she.
Yet, I feel a cracking of my exoskeleton.
There is not enough space to contain it anymore.
Lately, the skies have been filled with monarch butterflies as the end of migration nears.
Their deep orange hue like the setting sun on the horizon.
I’ve always been good at seeing the beauty in others, the beauty around me, but never in myself.
I was so preoccupied with my future, so blind, that I missed my own molting.
The end was my only goal; I never put any thought into the steps along the way.
Never did find where it was written, but that’s because I was never meant to find
it.
