Ears of surrounding stalks
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chafe at me, wavering in the wind
but never wavering there attention,
the moments repeated over.
Uprooting and journeying through
trough and brook would demand
looks of concern, are you meant
to do that?
So I look up and fight for growth
and sunlight, so my ears do not
flicker down and weigh my roots
with scratching wheat.
Now I'm taller, I can see
the waves in front of me.
I can see the expanse of
endless growth to wade through.
I can see something else,
some red beast with whirring
blades, skimming off the heads
of the wilderness.
Now I wish I had cherished
the forest around me, learnt to
live in them as companions,
accept the hurt.
Ask not what you can do to poetry, but what poetry can do to you.