If I could go back to my prime
with all I know now,
maybe I could really
accomplish something.
Make something of my joyous name,
make this laughing spell between us stay the same.
But what is my “prime”?
Seven years old, innocent, playing games of succession?
Eleven, on the cusp of depression?
Older, my body stronger and quicker?
Past school graduations? Working day and night?
Wealthy enough to photograph historic sites?
Perhaps no heyday
is anything but an amalgamation of every age,
youth
learning
healing
wisdom
memory
forgotten scars
innocence,
perhaps the height of my mortal empire
is only an illusion
because all that I know
comes tumbling like rain
growing these roots wider,
but also pushing them to break.
Teaching them about toughness, rock and poison soil,
such that the skill in my warrior heart
to save myself
would never have been honed
without me losing myself first.
But if we–seven, older, eleven, broken–
could push out of the ground
together somehow,
maybe we could’ve
caught ourselves in the act of falling
instead of landing, then
splintering these hands
to build wings
from sawed tree rings
to try and
drink sunlight again.
***
check out my published book at this link
Jordyn Saelor 