Bearing fruit

An ode to fruitful trees and fruitful love!

Taken off the balcony from my parents house

Bearing fruit — An ode to fruitful trees and fruitful love!

I.

I have made a home out of the earth, climbed every star reaching tree, found tiny houses out of apples, a yellow kitchen light gleaming through passageways, found love in a ficus and a pelargonia on the windowsill — and for that, I am never lost. Yellow liquid sun spilling into the kitchen as if splitting an orange in half. Fingers tainted of citrus, the air thick of the scent, my eyes forces close from the sting and you, oh, you look as if I have turned my heart inside out and given it to God, as if carved out of paradise. My skin is bitten into, feasted upon as if an orchard of plum and pears and cherries, despite everything — I am growing in abundance. Belly full of love, hands tired from the harvest, two lips growing wild underneath the trees. Somehow, you have brought me to your place of worship and your goodness has reached down to my roots and given life to my leaves. I am growing towards you — and for that, I will lean into the light. Never to be found, never to be lost. You have poured me my own river of sunlight, my very own, without asking for anything in return. For that, I will give you everything. We will become spring. Only the birch and the pine knows that our love will grow and bear fruit on warm summer evenings, every season we will grow as an oath, our love has tainted the earth like mulberries spilled onto cobblestone — for that, we will love forevermore.

II.

Take this as an ode to trees and to fruit, the ever growing of leaves and flora and weeds and roots. Without the willow burrowing into the earth, without its crown lulling me to sleep, I would not have found you. Without the meadows nestled underneath an ocean of wood anemone, I would not have dared to wonder. I am scurrying to find you, a trait I have carried with me since childhood — where running to the heart of the woods was the only thing I really knew, really believed in. If not for the tallest of trees, the mossiest of forest floors, stone rolling into green myriads of pinecones, I would not have believed in you.

III.

As I lay down, hair in knots, grass stains on my knees, the woods swallow me whole, far removed from shared air. The question remains, strangers lips are perked in a questionable manner, where do I really belong if not in the idlewild? In the untouched and unscathed evergreen? In moss and bark and grass? I pray to the wood anemones, let me go on without questions plaguing my mind, without strangers plaguing the soil. I no longer know violence, only peace as my heart rests in the moss, my soul longing to dance around the trees. The bones I had once, a prison of my own creation, splinters of what once was nourishes the roots. I have abandoned everything that will not bend to my will, I have buried everything that will not succumb to my light.

IV.

I speak to the wood anemones, my heart stripped from its body, lays beating in a myriad of white and green. I pray, even though I know nothing of religion — until your face lit up as if a crescent moon floated down into the creek, the darkest trees sprung into green, the ground once blackened, grows in curls and ribbons along the roots. The forest has made a lover out of me, and I, a lover out of the forest. I knew, as your fingers curled into the earth, the trees bent to your sun, there was only one worth worshipping.

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