I Scream with my Fingers
Is it not enough to grow roses?
To bow to the curve of a stem,
to respect the thorn that stifles
to show devotion not to a friend,
no, something deeper and truer still?
Brushing petals trains my hands to
perhaps my heart can take a cue.
With my hands plunged into the
moist, dark earth,
they are unable to grasp anything
but that which will one day
the fierce grace of grounding.
In the face of such fear and anger,
when hot tears perch on the lips
of my eyes and that part of me
craves to do something,
I scream with my fingers.