creased at the top
and concealing limitless wonders inside--
the envelope sat on my table,
surrounded only by my trembling hands,
curious to discover the force majeure inside.
Death--
I was taught that,
when Death takes his stride by
the ones you love, you
sign a contract to grieve, to feel the agony
to mourn the unbearable loss way down
deep
within your soul,
allowing it to quake and
turn your world to rubble. I picked
up the envelope, tore the paper, and peered inside.
Seeds
gently rolled ‘round
inside the creases. I poured them out
into my palm and stirred them with my finger,
curious as to who sent them,
but sure of what I had to do. The corridor
leading
from my cell block
to the dining hall is often
empty. The custodial staff has yet to repair
the window there that looks over an empty lot
behind
the hospital.
In the two years I’d been here, the cracks had
webbed into a hole in the pane,
and I used to spend hours staring out into nothing.
I
emptied the seeds
out the hole, unsure of what Mother Nature
would do with the seeds Mother sent,
but certain I was sane in my acts.
Twenty--
twenty years have passed,
and I’ve not had many visitors here. This
mental institution, this mad house,
can be too much some days. But each Mother’s Day,
I stare out that broken window,
and
watch the leaves of
the plants that grew from the seeds that
Mother sent me in an envelope
dance in the wind outside. Maybe one day,
I’ll be able to stand outside to watch them instead,
but I no longer grieve.
I just watch the leaves dance in the wind.
The prompt for the Mutant 750 Challenge #32 at Grammar Ghoul Press is the word "envelope," a noun meaning, "a flat paper container with a sealable flap, used to enclose a letter or document". The visual prompt this week is below:
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This poem is really a free-verse poem--that's generally what I write (I think I have something against construct and organization)--but that fluid thought in the first stanza struck a chord with me, and this poem just sort of evolved organically into what it is. No editing. No forethought. No planning. No experience. I've not lost my mother, nor have I ever been in a mental institution, but isn't that the beauty of writing? That you can think of the emotions and put yourself in a place where you've never been and hope to never be? Is it because of my dark mental state lately, possibly, but who knows. I just hope you enjoyed this post!
Thank you for reading!
Tony