growing softly

it never comes all at once —

collecting in small drops, falling silently

into a rain barrel you don’t remember strapping

to the narrow space between your own shoulders.

but drop by drop you begin to feel the weight

pressing down like a stern hand,

until every step bears a heaviness

you begin to stumble beneath.

it spills out then —

doubt, loneliness, confusion, fear,

dreams you can’t shake and promises you can’t keep,

sloshing over the edges that once held them in.

and it brings you painfully to your knees,

palms pressing into sun-cracked earth as you ask

is it real? is it me? am i lost?

(you don’t know which to fear more, the question or the answer).

you can’t stop it, then, and

the water pours over you,

salty and hot, soaking through the threadbare seams

of a costume put on many years ago.

but then you look up, carefully

(how long has it been?)

and your eyes trace the fluid line

of a cloak streaked with unabashed color.

their hand takes yours, cool and strong,

and your legs buckle once before you stand

to stare at the person whose eyes

shine like fireflies in the darkness.

a bucket balances on their shoulders, too

even larger and older than yours, but

the trunk of a little tree stretches up from it,

wide green leaves casting shade over your head.

you have the question on your lips,

but they reach out first, a tiny seed

resting in the center of a life-lined palm,

silver-sheened and trembling with possibility.

reverently, you take it,

and then the stranger smiles, turning

onto a path you haven’t noticed before

lined with wildflowers waiting to bloom.

it isn’t easy to plant the seed,

your arms twisting and straining until

the seams of your costume tear away

and it crumbles as it falls to the ground.

you touch the clothes beneath,

vibrant shades of every hue you love,

and find your arms free to reach high

as you draw a deep breath of new air.

the seed tinkles as it hits the bottom,

a sound like snowflakes on clear glass,

that you wonder if you heard

in a dream or a memory.

it still comes, slowly pooling

in moments faced with ignorance, pain, cruelty,

even as you follow the trail marked

by stacked stones and delicate blossoms.

but now the seedling can grow,

first a sprout, then a sapling, gently unfurling

into a tree with leaves that whisper in the wind:

you are loved. you are loved. you are loved.

and one day, when the seeds

drop from slender branches onto your shoulders,

you take them tenderly and tuck them away

for the next traveler you meet with an empty bucket.