Sparks*

 

The alpine willow’s fire

burns close to the ground.

 

Come autumn,

as each blade burns hotter, 

a catkin rises

like a plume of smoke

or a white flag.

 

Come closer.  

Like you, every cell 

still hums 

from root 

to flaming tip,

each a vibrant expression

of the whole.

 

We have each known a wintry night

or a darkness without stars,

 

but this —

this lone shoot is the opposite of

surrender.

 

It holds the creation of 

a collective, 

seeds 

that will burn as

millions of prayers,

 

carrying us forward

like sparks,

like lighthouses,

like the stars 

that were there

all along.

 

 

*Dedicated to those of us who have felt physically powerless and/or unsafe in the presence of another human.