Weight of Seeds
by Reed Williams
Dad’s bedraggled beard hairs dangle
between beady gems: rainbow-colored
droplets streaming down a lengthy
crimson mane. Mom’s head hairs bind
themselves in brilliant lemony ringlets.
Dahlias and daisies scatter
grandma’s garden—a floral field
forgotten of fruit: an acute
desire for the peach’s leafy foliage
and the apple tree’s looming,
protective branches. To scoop
their shady defenses for a basin—pouring
my tears, pouring my fears, wishing
for sincere security dissimilar
to the faulty refuge of dad’s face hairs.
Those pointed beads bleed me like his blade
bleeds mom, her lemony hairs
mobbing leaking fluids. And to sit
in my eyes is to see grandma’s garden
clearing dahlias and daisies for peaches
and apples: embedding seeds that nurture
instead of seeds that shine.
between beady gems: rainbow-colored
droplets streaming down a lengthy
crimson mane. Mom’s head hairs bind
themselves in brilliant lemony ringlets.
Dahlias and daisies scatter
grandma’s garden—a floral field
forgotten of fruit: an acute
desire for the peach’s leafy foliage
and the apple tree’s looming,
protective branches. To scoop
their shady defenses for a basin—pouring
my tears, pouring my fears, wishing
for sincere security dissimilar
to the faulty refuge of dad’s face hairs.
Those pointed beads bleed me like his blade
bleeds mom, her lemony hairs
mobbing leaking fluids. And to sit
in my eyes is to see grandma’s garden
clearing dahlias and daisies for peaches
and apples: embedding seeds that nurture
instead of seeds that shine.
Reed Williams is an emerging poet and writer in the Southern California region. While her work remains in a constant state of evolvement, she always writes from experience--whether it be physical, emotional, or intellectual--which, in some cases, approaches the parameters of eco-activist poetry and writing.