"I am hearing poetry when awake, dreaming poetry when asleep, breathing poetry with each breath, I am living in a poem."

Monday, April 21, 2014

Wings Clutching Roots

She lay with
arms outstretched;
pinned by the sun
to blades of grass
like a butterfly specimen.

Wings clutching roots
she let home stain her fingers
and pondered the irony
of finding contentment
in a place she had spent
a lifetime trying to escape.


©Susie Clevenger 2014



14 comments :

blueoran said...

What a fine title for exactly this moment. The two stanzas work perfectly to make this discovery. Great work, Susie.

ccchampagne said...

My 'Happy Place' is actually behind my grandparents' place, in the mossy grass. If I ever get really stressed, or when I can't sleep, that is where I go in my mind. My grandparents' are long gone, and the house belongs to someone else, but this piece resonated and brought that out. Thank you so much!

Jinksy said...

That's beautiful. :-)

Sumana Roy said...

when wings clutch roots contentment is the result...so
beautifully stated...

hedgewitch said...

Both beauty and truth in this image, Susie. Home pins us, frees us, and often forms us in ways we can only guess at until the years give us our true wings. Just lovely imagery here.

Kerry O'Connor said...

Yes, life is ironic that way. Every journey is a journey home.

Sherry Blue Sky said...

"Wings clutching roots".........so powerful. Thought-provoking, Susie.

Mark Kerstetter said...

There's enough ambiguity here that one can read it straightforwardly as about a butterfly or as a metaphor for other things. I find that ambiguity satisfying and beautiful.

Margaret said...

Oh man, this sizzles with the complexities of life! I adore it - so artistically done.

manicddaily said...

Very clever and poignant and easy to relate to. Thanks. K.

Wordifull Melanie said...

Susie, this is wonderful. So relatable too.

Sharp Little Pencil said...

Letting home stain her fingers... I wish I could go home, but it isn't there anymore, washed away in the third "hundred-year flood" in five years...

I long to lay on the grass, run my fingers through the Indian Paintbrush and violets, smell the sun (yes, it did smell sweet!). And indeed, it was the place I fled as fast as my 18-year-old in high heels could take me! BRILL. Sorry I have not been around, lots happening. See you soon, Susie. Amy

grapeling said...

i find this brilliant, Susie ~

Kim Nelson said...

Like a butterfly specimen... love that simile.

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