THE FIELDS

Constant crossing between fields.
Can’t pick a flower from one,
without thinking of the waters of the other.

Exhausted from walking,
inclined to pick a field.
Choose one and gain all its flowers,
but lose the river?

The river that flowed its way into my heart?
Not meant to be discovered,
and yet it was.

Or the flowers grown by my blood?
Each with something to say,
with a life to be celebrated,
with a story to be retold.

So the trek will continue between the fields,
but learn to love the trip.
I am both of the fields, the flowers, the waters.
But I’m still learning to be proud of my journey.