maelynslavik

Poetry has a silent power 

In the way that poets 

don’t need words to communicate 

With one another; 

We simply see a wildflower 

I’d like a palmful of metaphors, 

Ones to use every time 

I put a pen to a page, 

To plant in my heart 

And become submerged in my hope, 

I would like to hope

That before there was a sky

Bleeding stars,

Before there were planets

Polluted with creation,

That there was still the beating heart

I’d like to garden

My own heart,

To pull the weeds of sadness

And hate

From the foundation

I sprout from,

To plant seeds of hope

I remember sitting

In my mom’s lap,

Her arms curled around me,

The rocking chair creaking slightly

In the breeze of her love,

Swayed and lulled by a sea

Smoke curls into the air,

Twirling,

One thread dipping another,

A slow waltz

With some quick steps to spark

The band,

A careful orchestra