look at these countless dents in my skin,
they bear testimony 2 the existence of once firm flesh--and although green with inexperience,
i learned to hide my bruises well

and for a while, my hiding was my comfort zone. . .

then came the squeezing HeavinesS --
a burden Mother's limbs were not willing to bear
one moment longer. . . but still She lov'd me so.
for you see there is much weariness when
you've done all you can do,
but try to blame others for
unfixed wrongs,

and i admit to my soul that it's true ,

Fair Mother has carried me far too long
and so, like any good Mother,

She dropp'd me. . .

and i fell from The Graces
away from the healing leaves

lying stunn'd on the ground
i felt my bruises even more,
the unloveliness of feeling alone
the ingratitude of those who looked
down upon my needy state

when my seed began to ripen
i cursed it, and like Cain
i cursed the ground--never asking
to be created, but i was

and seeing it fruitless to argue with my Creator

He clear'd His throat, and fuss'd.me. . .
"even YOU have purpose, and
I AM the one who makes no mistakes"

they say the gardener prunes the bush,
and when it refuses to be pruned,
it is tossed into the fire, and burn'd
2 ashes as if the bush was never there

so here i lay, sprawled out on the grass
near the rugged roots of the tree 
that birth'd me, looking like a sorry excuse of a reject
while at the same time feeling more like 
the most bizarre example of all fruit...

but if you pick me up,
clean me off, and with care
perform a few nips and tucks,
maybe my sweetness you can reclaim,
and even if my seed was dumped
and left for compost. . .
at least my rotten core can say
"welcome home" to squiggling maggots.

© 2004 by cynth’ya lewis
All rights reserved