Tess Johnson // TRAVELING THE SEASONS

Let them be as daisies, always beautiful, healthy,

And the plant of everyone’s choice.

But often plucked and shaken recklessly by little kids,

Then left to regrow on their own and go through the torture

Over and over again.

 

I’m born with a gentle fall from a tree,

Onto a soft bed of red and yellow leaves.

Blown by the breath of nature,

Rolling into a new beginning.

 

Squirrels hide me in their cheeks, preparing for safe hibernation.

Others think the squirrels dig me a burial ground where I’m left for the winter,

Cold, forgotten, and alone.

 

But I’m not left to die.

I’m buried in the ground like a time capsule,

To grow into a strong oak and tell my stories of the seasons.

 

Once the snow melts, I pop my head out of the ground

And I am immediately kicked and stepped on.

I travel by the wind and explore the world.

I have battle scars from the hard winters,

I’ve lost my hat.

 

I’d rather be hidden in the mud

Than to be a daisy stuck in a front lawn, overheated by the summer sun.

Looked at, splashed on, and ripped apart by people passing by.

I’d rather be on my own, then a daisy in a showcase.

 

I’d rather be small and have bumps and bruises on my shell

Than have fragile petals and exposed seeds.

If I could be on my own and travel through the seasons,

I’d rather be a hurt, strong acorn.

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