When I enter your nur –– eternal Mother ––
will you let me hold your misk scented
hand, show you shed photons of my hair
that deplete of auxins sooner than my age;
comfort me on the warnings I ignored ––
king vitamin that estranged me bereft
of cells that could foster my roots even
in darkness; water of my spine spilled ––
away from you. Place your hand –– eternal
Mother –– on my fissured bark that sprout
premature, confident of growing taller
than the clouds in the sky without light
in an escapist’s husk. Rain fruits over me;
I grew tall in isolation, surpassing the sun
branching my skull in direction of winds
that didn't stay faithful to one compass,
and my leaves didn't absorb as they should,
coating everything I touched in white ash ––
My body is infertile to flower paths
for voyagers –– bled my sap to whims
of seeds; queen Mother of eternal life,
on earth I am rare like flying stingrays
called as birds of water, rarer than nests
of proteins I bedded. Your cleaving light
can nourish worth into serrated stems ––
nur of skies and earth –– see my fragile
hair, open weeds in a breeze. I breathe
the dust of your realm; untethered death
showers salt over my unwanted sprigs,
and constellations continue their harvest
of the deep, vast void. Only you can sparse
thick, unbreathable air; convert to fertilised
streams of crescent fortune. Pulled by sickle
of drought, I am here, collect me with mercy––
First published in The Nature of Our Times
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