Wanderlust

The worm will stir and burrow down into the damp and black;

what looks like hiding or escape is simply going home.

And when it rains, the worm will rise to take the surface back,

emerging unafraid out of the safety of the loam.

The robin sees the worm wriggling about the dewy grass

and swiftly she descends from high to fetch her morning meal.

And when the earth is frozen solid, robins soar en masse,

to pluck ripe fruit from sturdy trees in warmer climes with zeal.

The trees stand firm and strong and seem to never move at all,

but still, roots creep into the soil, and leaves climb to the sky.

If trees were stillness only, they could never get so tall;

the growth continues, slow enough to fool a foolish eye.

A girl surveys the sky and sees the trees sway to and fro,

forever looking for the kind of freedom that she needs.

How they became the giants they are now, she doesn’t know,

she only feels instinctively that once, they were but seeds.

When women look back at the things we did when we were young,

we see the line from then to now, the path that we all walk,

the stops along the way where we were taught to hold our tongues,

each step a burning, stabbing pain, warning us not to talk.

But, as the trees must grow, we were not made for standing still;

the clouds will wander, rain will fall, and rivers need to flow.

And oceans run in tides and currents, never get their fill,

forever reaching out, revealing all we do not know.

A woman speaks and makes the world turn, even if for spite;

all evolutions, revolutions start with stirring minds.

something innate inside a soul yearns to one day take flight,

longs to cast off its chains, to roam and capture what it finds.

Electrons circle nuclei like planets orbit stars;

and we have submarines and trains and planes and bikes and cars;

running away, or drifting, or revisiting old scars;

all things are made with this same need: to be not where we are.