One With Others
I lie flat on my stomach and put my face right
next to the tiny green shoot unfurling from the confines of the
snow. A tiny brown, cracked seed still sticks to the top of the
shoot, and I resist the urge to pull the remains of its infant
I put my ear to the ground, imagine I can hear
the sound of water rushing through the roots of the trees
awakening. If you hold a stethoscope to the side of a tree, you
can hear the sap pulsing through the heart of the tree, deep
beneath the layers of dried bark and soft wood.
I dig my fingers into the still-frozen dirt,
wish myself roots, can almost feel them breaking through my
flesh. I long to be a part of these green things, to be called
to fold up beneath the earth in the winter to sleep, burst forth
renewed and green every spring. This little plant is all I want
to be. These are all the friends I will ever need.
Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two
living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her poetry has recently
appeared in Hawai’i Pacific Review, The Oxford American, and
Slipstream. Her book publications include Music Composition for
Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, and Music Theory for
Dummies, which has recently been translated into French, Dutch,
Spanish, Russian, and Portuguese.