You Could Have Stayed Shallow, But You Didn't

—from the Forest Floor to the Trees

On Friday I posted a poem from a book I have been working on finishing. It’s a book of poetry, based on perspectives from the elements. The one I shared was a poem from the trees to the forest floor. This is the forest floors response to the trees.

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You Could Have Stayed Shallow, But You Didn't
—from the Forest Floor to the Trees

You could have stayed above me.
Tall. Worshiped.
Bathed in light.
Admired from a distance.

But you didn’t.

You broke the surface.
Slow at first, then relentless.
And I split myself open to take you.

Not because I had to.
Because I hungered for it.
For the weight of you driving deeper,
for the ache of your roots 
clawing through my dark,
for the taste of your need dripping into me.

There is something sacred
about being chosen by something so strong,
and still so careful.

You don’t just enter me.
You tear into me.
You twist your wanting inside my soil
and I swallow it whole.
and make a feast of your descent.

You press for years, 
Lifetimes,
and I never let you go.
Every inch you surrender, I claim.
Every secret you bury, I devour.
Every tremor in your body,
I drink like rain.

I feel the way you shudder
when lightning splits your sky.
I feel the way you pulse
when rain slicks your bark 
and drips into me.

You don’t ask to be held,
you just descend,
and trust I will know what to do.

And I do.

I take your hunger
and turn it into stillness.
I take your roots
and tangle them in secrets.
I take your weight
and call it worship.

You could have stayed shallow.
But you didn’t.
And god, how I bloom for you in the dark.