The Secret of Unfurling

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holly grantham -the secret of unfurling-3

Can I tell you something?
For too long
I heard wrong.
And misunderstood
the language of
the years.
This mistake
shaped me
for a time.

Calendars flipped and
my body curved
and still
I was quiet.
Each year sifted down
upon my head
and
slowly
I became hidden.

But see this–
Look with me at
what is also true:
I fell in love with the
world.
I smelled deep of orange rind
and wood smoke
curling.
I delighted in the feel of
moss and
ripe peaches
dripping.
I fell in and out and
in and out
and in and
out of
love.

Years of quiet were
planted deep in
the bosom of
becoming.
The peonies beside the driveway
told my listening ear
the secret of unfurling.
Of opening to the light.
Their unassuming knowing
was audacious.
And my soul knew it.
Memorized it.

I remember
sitting in the bathtub
when I was five.
It was June.
Midsummer.
The locusts had yet to begin
their humming.
My feet
they were deep purple
from having walked barefoot
underneath the mulberry tree.
The silky squish underfoot was
intoxicating.
But it stained.
And my five year old self
filed that knowledge
away.
The truth that
everything we take in
leaves a mark.
Colors us.
Paints us beautiful.
Even if it never makes a sound.

The years
add creases or
weight or
burdens.
Perhaps.
But they also
stain us with
beauty.
And beauty can not stay
hidden.
It doesn’t know how.

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