My life

Today, I had a strange feeling all day, just thinking about life and how it is but a vapor. This poem is a pouring out of that reflection about place, purpose, and the brevity of life:

My life is but a planting
in a garden I must leave.
What of me will stay behind
I cannot perceive.
I sit in heather hollows
and in the dark womb
of the Earth.

A nagging question haunts me-

What of me has worth?

What of me will bloom someday?

In my garden, I can't stay...

I scatter in the wind's
lonely howl and longing;
The strange yearning cry
echoes with belonging.
I rattle in the leaves above-
a music of sweet sorrow;
Someday the leaves will drop
It may be tomorrow.
tangled in the berry brambles
and shy mountain flowers,
the sun slowly sinks;
I've few blooming hours.
I stand alone - one tree -
in the space of sun and moon.
my roots sink deep and cling,
Night comes much too soon.
though pin-holes of hope
pierce the inky sky...

I stand alone,
Alone,
waiting to fly.

I am a fragmented soul
fragmented by dreams
I am unknown shape
Always becoming, it seems.
Yet I am this much of me, and no more.
I confess-
Sometimes my garden feels like a mess.
I peel away from myself,
down to my core.
Like petals uncurling,
There is the promise of more.
My life is but a planting
of my dreams, and me.
What grows is something-
This is what I see.
-Melissa Ulrich