Maslina.

What have you done to me,

I said what have you done?

When did your spell kick in;

I think - where can I run?

I watched you pop out of the ground as a hurricane swirled around you; and you were swayed left and right into the sunlight by the gentle breeze of the roaring winds near the eye of the tornado you blossomed in. You overtook it all - for masses of grey debris that circle a place of tenderness are more a frame - a blooming centrepiece to showcase hope; silk, colour-changing petals that reflect the nature of my soul right in my eyes. You overtook it all - the raging anger, death and vermin dared not touch you, dared not give you anything but distance - a place to grow from, open sky, a tunnel shooting to the sun. I used to wonder if the ground that still had humid soil would ever yield fruit. The storm grew bigger over time, and I knew there would never be a crop. To see life grow in a place of death, to see colours in a mass of grey; in my swirling, spewing, venom-spitting ruin of a soul. A cruel irony of worthless hope and years of winds; of standing still and hoping for some stillness; no principle to guide my frightening desire.

The seed fell down, caught root and knew of water - it blew here through the winds and through the storm. It fought its way through walls of dust and ashes, it didn’t stop until it called me home - it did not stop until it called me mother, for I’m the one who nurtured you ‘till death; I could not move when seasons of my living brought frost upon your leaves - and with it, breath. Seeds scatter off your porcelain cadaver, winds blow, and for a while you’re just a shell.

But sun makes way through clouds of swirling dust - and every time it does, you bloom again - and die and rot and scatter all your seeds - and cry, and beg, and urge me to keep on.

For when I’m in the hurricane, I’m blind - and hurricanes are what I call my home. But hurricanes make fertile, living land - and hope will grow from willingness alone.

I see you every time I see a flower.

I hear you whisper “just another hour.”

And just another passes and again

You tell me to remember who I am.

You help me find my honour; you’ve seen my demons slain.

You’ve grown a field of flowers around my hurricane.