For now the truth would I know:
What call they the tree | that casts abroad
Its limbs o’er every land?
(Svipdagsmol, 29.)

It begins within itself, as do all seeds.

She rolls the seed between her fingers. She picks at its shining fibers. Off with its seedcoat; she sees the sprout curl around its flesh. It curves infinitely, it weighs everything.

She spits on it, clasps it. Sprouts unravel between her fingers.

As it grows, she prunes it. She pulls its dried leaves, she grafts it to itself. She lets the seeds shrivel and fall from it, back to the roots.

An orchard grows thick and sturdy.

She pulls off branches, and out climb miniature creatures. They climb the trees steadily. At the tangled branches, they become tiny children. They grip leaves.

One only knows one’s self by one’s perceived location in the orchard. One is always climbing many trees at once.

About abi nighthill

Abi has a BA in Poetry from Columbia College Chicago.
This entry was posted in National Poetry Writing Month, Poetry and Nonfiction, Prompted, School. Bookmark the permalink.

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