Two pairs of poems

Just some more stuff I’d written and never got around to posting here.

worth it

Sweat and strain, pain and blister,
Glorious dawning skies,

accomplishment and satisfaction:
rare epiphanies.

the conflicted pleasure
of reaching your limits,
raising them, then reaching again

internal accounting,
the only real measure
of trying as hard as you can.

frustration, addiction,
bleed, burn and cry

and inevitable struggle
hopeless explaining
when outsiders ask you “why?”

Exertion
Yesterday, rowing, I pulled on my oar
Until every sinew was strained
The power from my teammates ignited a spark
And, laughing, I flashed into flame.

As fire over water, united, we raced
And the flame forged us into one crew
At the coxswain’s command, we pounded downcourse,
Legs burned, but our lead slowly grew.

Today I don’t care if my legs feel like lead;
It’s just fine if my body is sore.
That burn tells the tale of a weekend well spent
Like the medal that hangs by my door.

Indomitable Blossom
This tree is gnarled now,
Not the thing of perfect symmetry
I planted years ago.
Its virginal perfection marred,
Branches broken by the fall
Of a dying ash tree.

I feared it would die too,
That it was wounded too sorely
to recover. Instead
This spring it has burgeoned:
Brave with blossom, its gnarled limbs
Curve in a new and deeper beauty.

Indomitable Blossom: Dryad
When she steps from the crab apple tree
Her arm is crippled, her body crooked.
The scar on her face will not fade.
Yet this spring, as every year before
Her hair is a glorious mass of blossom
Spilling down her back,
And she steps lightly, every move
Alive with the promise of spring.

The accident was my fault.
I had to cut the dying ash
But I swung my axe with little skill,
Placing the cuts badly.
The big tree fell heavily.
I sobbed as I saw it
heading straight for the crab apple
Too late to turn it aside.

I feared to see her dead,
But my feet, not stopping to think
Raced to her side – she was deep in the tree,
Of course. But in desperation, I reached –
My hands sank beneath the bark.
I pulled her out,
Straightened her bones and branches, best I could
And sealed them with grafting wax.

And I prayed. To anyone who would listen;
Cernunnos, Demeter, Freya, Eostre, and Nut.
I don’t know which of them answered.
But eventually her eyes opened
And the green flush under her skin returned.
That winter was long
But she never blamed me – the ash was a mercy killing –
And summer saw her standing, long hours, arms around her tree.

They healed, mostly. A spiritless tree
Would have died. A sapless woman might have.
She lives. She walks, she sings,
This spring she blossoms.
The perfect bridal cherry tree
Along her lane
Cannot compare in beauty
To her ruined grace.