Mugwort

We grow from cracks,
where sunlight staggers,
a patch of silver-green defiance,

Studying it, I am beneath the earth’s skin.
My own roots twist.

becoming becoming becoming

Could I alone hold the ache of what was buried,
and the fire of what awakens?

Could I give away these breasts,
curled fists on my chest
hidden in shadows,
a whisper between my hands.

They called me healer once,
an alchemist, an artist
of my own body, a reshaped truth.

You and I

at the threshold—
neither seed nor ash,

but the bloom that straddles both,
an outstretched hand to what aches and another

to what dreams.

This transition burns and implodes,
I cradle it still,
leaves singing to the moon

roots weeping into the soil.

There is no misery here.

I have tasted joy—
not as an end,
but as fleeting moments

give me just one moment of grace

Mugwort,
balm for what the world has split,
witness to the blaze of being,
whisper to those who suffer—
you are not alone
you are not alone
you are not alone.

you are everything
that has ever dared to grow.

ANKI