Now it is my turn to be unable to give you what you sorely need.
I’m sorry I can’t find the magic words to wake you up. I’m sorry you can’t see me. I’m sorry I don’t even want to be seen.
A voice spoke, from the place where there is no Inside or Outside. “You are a seed,” it said. And then I slept. I dreamed of a beanstalk that stretched all the way to the sky. I dreamed of a tree that was also a spaceship. I dreamed of lightning and rain, and worms far beneath the desert.
Fling me away. Give me that dizzying arc through light and air, then the long dark wait underground. Give me a week floating down the river. Give me a day in a warm animal belly. Let me know what it is to be restless water. Let me know what is is to walk, to have teeth.
Give me space for roots and branches, space to know what I know. Give me time to be strange and new, and maybe someday I’ll miss you. But I’ll never be sorry for growing these thorns.