“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”
– Anaïs Nin
I do not remain to judge
I simply remain to be
A tree
Who trims her branches
of the heavy rotted fruit
of her past
A limb which sags lifeless
bearing an ignoble Roman
and his secret lover’s
letter of apology;
embarrassed at her
eating the bitter fruits off my tree
for so long concealed.
A limb of a childhood crush
who write letters
lamenting the lost chance
of the eating of my fruit
many many years past
while he eats the fruit of another
he calls “wife”
A limb dense with
a desperate women
who clings to my branches
calling herself “friend”
hoping I will feed her
while she gorges
on the fruits of many
trees around the world.
A limb which drags heavy
of fruit fermented in
past insecurities and
Ignorance
Finally free with
the passing of the storm
called experience
I trim these dead limbs
and with a bright smile
carved into my trunk
I can now move about
to paint my branches,
grow a sweet
yet discerning fruit
and celebrate freedom
by Jennifer Allison
One Street Shy 