Emma Stevenson, Growing Up

Growing, Up

The grass lies hungry, waiting

to swallow up water, worms,

seeds.

I scatter them. One by one

they are plunged into the

dampened fingers of fertile

earth,

and guzzled down into

the belly of mother nature

herself.

She wraps them up in the

reeds of her fine green

hair,

and holds them in the

safety of her bare skinned

breasts.

Seedlings germinate into

little realities, growing like

time,

with the urgency to sprout

a leaf which extends into the

expanse,

beyond the confines of

innocence.