The words of a nervous old man rang through me. He said, “You will bloom where your seed is planted”, and I thought of the Cherokee Rose. As I drove through the bright summer twilight I watched the clouds swell and spill and felt a familiar dark cloud come over my own heart. I remembered the histories that guided me as I grew. A daisy tangled in the thorns of a Cherokee Rose, I know it was tears that made them grow. “You will bloom where your seed is planted”. A little daisy owed it’s life to this land, growing and learning the ways of the world in and around the kudzu vines. The weathered branches of a peach tree and the hands of a woman stained and caked with red clay, they made me too. It is something clear as the air and real as the wind ties me to this place, but never for a moment will I forget the truth and your grace, the will to survive and the bloodstained paths you traveled and trekked as you were forced from this ancient land, so rich and alive with spirits. As your tears fell and you departed from your sacred Earth, you planted a new seed and from it bloomed the Cherokee Rose. And I ask that your thorns score my limbs so that these truths and my devotion for repair won’t ever die. Though almost none remain here now their struggle is harrowing and real. So with my knowledge, Cherokee Rose, I ask for strength to fight with those struggling out on the desolate plains today.
Posted on: Fri, 14 Jun 2013 02:32:19 +0000
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