Where Love Blossomed
By Sachém Parkin-Owens
Published 12 August 2022
Concrete is where love has blossomed.
The soil beneath my leaves devoid of life,
full of misconception and missed connection.
Full of self-reflections and misapprehensions.
You could see the incisions left from the last woodchuck -
you asked me, “How much wood could a woodchuck
chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” And I said,
“A fucking lot.”
Where there were incisions, you pressed
your gold tinted skin and covered them up
with cocoa butter kisses. Where there was
dead soil, you put your soul within and gave it life
Where there were weak limbs, you mothered
a harness made of comfort and understanding.
Your love for me is visibly more desirable
than money that grows off trees. When spring
come, you never pick my flowers or leaves.
You continue to water and shine
your rays upon my rough rugged bark
and uncommonly find beauty.
But when that gush of wind decides to strip my branches,
no matter how hard the circumstance is - you're there.
Raking away. Damage from the rain pretending your
happiness, when you're clearly in pain.
Couple days pass, the foundation has set for our
stepping stones, it was hard. Harder than solidifying
the foundation of trust. I know it's a must, but trust
is so hard, which is why the foundation for our stepping
stones are made of concrete.
Although it's made of concrete and encompassing
my trunk, right around the bottom, you
found the cracks in the concrete and proved
that no matter the foundation, concrete
is where love has blossomed.