The delegation of camellias and peonies has arrived.
They are polite, quiet, intently staring at me,
Careful not to ruin their colorful coiffures.
I am unprepared. I have nothing to feed them.
They tell me water is fine. They don’t have much time:
Some, a couple of days; others, four and a half.
They open up and want to discuss traumatropism,
Which not many humans have heard about.
But first, they show me how to take up space.
How to turn to the sun. How not to be afraid of colors.
They teach me about the trees
Hit by lightning that continue to grow.
They tell me to go to the woods and watch
How wounded trees and shrubs survive.
Even splintered by sorrow, we all
Can carry on, maybe even thrive.
You can grow out of your wound, they say.
You can grow up or grow sideways.
You can grow green. Change your direction.
If the trees can do it, so can you.
Make a turn away from the boulder
That life has placed at your roots.
Make a turn from the injured side;
Move away from the wound.
As they speak, a few red and pink petals fall.
And in the middle of the room, the table
Where I sit turns into a tree.
I grab a jar of honey and a spoon.
I dab this amber ointment
On three broken twigs before I climb
Onto the sturdiest branch—a girl
With a flower wreath and an open book.
—
Agnieszka Tworek was born in Lublin, Poland. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Ploughshares, The Sun, The Southern Review, Spillway, The Shore, ONE ART, Lake Effect, The Indianapolis Review, and elsewhere.
