portion of the artwork for Michael T. Young's poetry

Fertile Ground
Michael T. Young

Her parents linger by the car, gathering
lunch and the blanket she will later
dance around and drop beside, pressing

her fingers into the grass and dirt.
For now, she sprints toward the field
of butterfly weed and flight, a toehold

on the waking she carries inside her, sheets
of dream and joy shed from her heels
in a flurry of petals trailing from the covers,

lifted from her breath scented with clover
like a world of green woven under a shadow
of wings, of passing sparrows and hovering gnats,

travelers of wonder she falls through, flowers
waved like wands in her passing, threading
the air with a magic of pollen and buds.

These will root in her, and in the later years
of loss and regret, blossom from her sleep,
sprouting thermals that will lift her above them.


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 59 | Spring/Summer 2022