I Am the Spirit

I Am the Spirit

I Am…
I am the spirit of the vibrantly hued flower
Whose color flashes warning of a siren song
I am the irrepressible splash of undefinable things
I am the sigh in the night, the tears on the pillow,
the balled up fists of the boxer rising,
I am ethereal and tangible drifting up,
I am the pairing of un-matched things
I am in the fragrant crushed petals made more beautiful still
Bruised and battered scented deep and indelible–
I come back up from the mat again and again

I am all things soft and elegant
Eloquence and cursing blue streaks of the gutter
I am strong and shapely standing my ground
Through snow, wind, rain,
I am the impertinent pop of hopeful bright color
That rises up after the hurricane
I am the flash of shy bright yellow
Poking exuberantly through cracks in concrete–
I make space even in craggy places

I am the palest of pink and the shouting burst of
Royal purple and the in your face orange of a sun rising or setting
Depending solely upon my mood at the moment,
I end or I begin
I am the deepest shade of red carrying fiery licking tendrils
Of sensuality, rage, passion, the bubble tinkles of laughter
I am in the weeping of the willows
I am the softness of satin, I glide cool and silken, and I am also the
The billowy delicate rush and fineness of snowy QueenAnne’s Lace–
I am both the hush and the scream, squelched, then freed

I dot the meadows and roll with the hills
I am wildness confined to the gilded trellis
I snake my way through tangles, brambles, and vines
Up I go, down I weave, over and under
I occupy it all
I am sometimes the ostentatious blue of the Morning Glory
Or gentled in the white flash of bone,
In a flickering twist of light
I become the subtle shades of Night Blooming Jasmine–
I am the scent that calls to you, the color you cannot deny

Sometimes I am trampled low and shattered into the mud
I have been bowed down, laid to rest, and counted out
My face has hidden under clouds resting there between storms
I have been the Indian Paintbrush without a canvas,
the Bird of Paradise inside a ghetto,
the sudden trill trumpet blast of the lily without a symphony,
the wildflower that soothes the trail,
the imperfect reflection of a once
gorgeous bloom who has lost its season,
And yet, I am everything I am meant to be, fluid and shifting–
Sometimes frozen in place, but always there

I am all of these things both the seen and buried things, deep in stillness I draw breath,
I re-gather myself, I inch forward, I begin again,
I cannot be extinguished, I am fierce like the Firethorn
And even in silence, I cannot be ignored–
Not even by you

I am here in every shade and season, even if unseen, even if in a fury of waiting
I am strength and gentleness—
I am a fighter in a windswept cascade of petals

I am the lushness of the full-blown face of the Rose
caught under a sudden blanket of snow
Yes, even there–
I am…