I.
Rocks chip away sleep from their eyes. Turtles snap their shells, broken
necks, and scattered shards of forest floor. I see your face
floating in the water, youth reduced to ripples.
Faith falls through my fingers, washes me awake.

II.
Golden orbs circle tree tops, operas screech out rusty throats.
Transformation can be terrifying—
those old talons of change, that familiar scrape
of subconscious. The future shakes her feathers and takes flight.
The owl is no longer wise.

III.
The bush is bleeding berries. Poison grows on trees. The fruit drops
and rots before it hits the dirt. I write poems in the dust,
paint my brush in purple blood. Like you, I am broken
and in pieces. I have forgotten my name.
I am berry, bush, poison, art.
I do my best to stay alive.

IV.
Confession: I fall in love in every forest, every canopy of tree.
Each conversation comes from a bird’s mouth,
each song a sonnet, Gaia’s very own love poem.
I breathe in butterflies, I breathe out beetles.
Somewhere, someone finds me beautiful.

V.
Across oceans, a seal is sleeping for the last time.
A polar bear feels the snow melt beneath her feet.
The owl spreads her wings. My grandmother buries
her bible in the yard. She waits to see
what grows.

~

Jillian wants to live in a world where the coffee is bottomless and the sweatpants are mandatory. She spends her days crafting creative copy for clients in numerous industries and is known for her work in Children’s Programming. Her poetry and creative nonfiction essays have been featured in Querencia Press, Plentitude Journal, Pile Press, and Voicemail Poems. When she’s not writing, Jillian can be chasing after her two adorable children and cheering on the Baltimore Ravens.