BY GUNILLA NORRIS, from the Spring 2021 Issue

What we speak becomes the house we live in. –Hafiz

Green as in foolish,
innocent and very young.

Green as in never caring
when things take a turn

into nowhere again and
keep on keeping on.

So many are dying,
so many now bereft.

Green as the over-sweet
icing on the gift cake

someone brought me with
all the candles burning

and many more for years to
grow. Green again.

Green as inspiration
on a dark day looking into

the crack in the concrete,
wanting a tiny weed to suffice.

Green, oxidized copper,
the metal of Venus,

that solders what’s broken
together again. Can we love

enough to bear the inevitable
cost? Can we bear not to love?

Green, a time I haven’t lived
before but awaits patiently

like all things that are slow
to come out of hiding.

Green gives me long, beautiful
leaves, that are like the lyrics

to a song my heart sings
to itself while I sleep

oblivious to all that is crying.
It’s hard to wake up and

discover myself barefoot
standing on hummocks

of packed winter grass.
My feet burn with cold,

but under them, I feel how
the roots laugh. I hear them

getting ready to emerge,
blatant, thrusting up,

blade upon blade of green hope
offered to all that is trembling.

Gunilla Norris is the award-winning author of Sheltered in the Heart, Joy is the Thinnest Layer and more.

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