lotus, i

Every lotus blooms after its time in the mud.

How long can the dark times be before you 

Blossom into color?

If all you see is brown,

How do you know what else is there?

To know the height and depth of blues,

The richness of purples and mauves,

The statements and emotions that

Follow reds.

In its child-like state, the lotus

Knows what its shown.

As does she.

The little girl that sits in the grass,

Staring at the tree that is her

Friend.

She does not know much,

But she knows some.

She knows what they tell her to see,

Or not to see.

The lotus is planted at the bottom of the lake

Its roots deep underneath the dark, wet soil.

It knows the darkness, where its roots will then

Grow.

She too, knows the darkness.

She though, does not grow within it.

The tree friend stares back at her, silent.

Its leaves are chattering to her in spurts,

Telling her where to put her rocks and moss.

The décor of the crevices that she hides her

Sorrows away.

The kitchen, to the left.

A dining room to the right.

Within the roots of her friend that she

Spends with most of her time.

She talks to the little girl in her head

The only one who sees and feels each

Moment that she does.

They tell each other the reasons for their

Décor, their choices of placement,

Their sadness of being alone, together.

The lotus rises from its roots in the murkiness

Even though its knows where it started and

How it belongs to the mud.

It works its way around the algae, the tadpoles

The barriers within its space that could

Inhibit its growth.

The rise.

The little girl feels the wind, a conversation

Between the sky and her friend

Gently swaying her hair. It tells her something

Is coming.

It tells her the storm is on its way.

The smell of humidity and fear

Envelops the little girl, her friend,

And the spaces surrounding her.

The lotus is surrounded by the tadpoles,

The algae, and the other creatures that sense

The coming storm.

It sways in the water, feeling the life around

It push it out of their way to avoid the storm.

It has no where else to go.

The mud holds it down.

And with the rolling clouds canopying

Over the lake,

The darkness becomes darker.

The little girl is consumed with fear.

She runs into the home that she knows

What is.

She knows nothing else.

She shields herself from the storm in blankets

And walls,

Yet she can still hear, feel it coming.

She could not see what Mother had in store.

The lotus is surrounded with nothing

But the chaos of the creatures

It cannot shield itself,

All it can do is watch.

The wind blows and the ripples above

The lake become thicker and stronger.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The raindrops that settle on top of the lake

Create ripples upon ripples, telling a story.

A story of the storm, and how it comes and goes.

The thunder sounds, booms down, and the lotus

Feels the vibration underneath its roots within

The mud.

Its home.

Where it should feel safe.

The little girl hides between the walls and the

Blankets, but they do not shield her.

They are weak.

Yet they are all she had.

All she had around her to protect her,

All she could find.

They said she would be safe,

Mother and He.

Yet they trampled her blankets with words,

Broken promises,

To which they could not keep.

The lotus grows, rises tall through the storm

And the ages that follow.

The rain persists and the thunder

Threatens.

The louder it booms, the brighter the sky turns.

The lightning shines the way, even for a second.

A moment that seemed where the lotus could

Find its way to the top.

And then it turns dark again.

She takes it all in, the storm and the

Winds.

The winds that knock her down,

And the words that trample her safety.

The little one in her head is all she has,

And she always says the same things.

Where she doesn’t understand.

She doesn’t know why.

Yet, the uncertainty hurts.

The storm is over now, but its

Ending path of destruction is even

Worse now.

It took down trees that gave her breath.

It took down the flowers that gave her light.

Showed her what the world’s beauty could be,

Even in something so small.

The ground beneath her feet was not stable,

She struggled to stand.

She struggled to hold on to anything

But her own arms, holding herself

Tight to feel the warmth of someone

Who truly cared for her.

The lotus stays under the lake,

The ripples are faint, longer,

Bigger.

They are not frequent,

But they still move it.

The tadpoles and the algae are gone,

Only a few remain.

Its world is not the same.

It does not know what it has not been

Taught.

All it knows its to rise above the lake,

Letting the ripples wave under its leaves,

While adjusting to the motions.

It is normal, now. It knows that they come,

And they go.

And you never know when.

Time passes, and the little girl knows

Now that pain is real.

Pain within love within hate,

Is real.

Its true and its living and it thrives off of

Her.

It rises as she falls.

And while she struggles to stand.

She finds colors, bright, warm, cool,

Deep.

Even when her world was black, dark,

Muddy.

Where all she could see was the mud, and she

Rose.

She understood the richness of blues,

The warmth of red,

The rejuvenation of yellow,

And the paleness of pinks.

She blossomed above the mud.

She thrived within the troubled world below her.

-In Progress, LV. 15