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I witness you punching your way out,
breaking up through the cool damp earth 
that imprisoned you for years—
harsh sun on the surface blinding.

Bent forward, you place the delicate flower back
exactly as you found it—roots reattaching,
the field you stand in full of dancing petals
as far as the eye can see,

and even from this vantage point, I recognize
this split-second moment—before knowing
the earth could open up and swallow you whole—
is the last time you felt truly certain of anything.

Then I see you skipping backwards
to the very beginning, slipping further away
until you are nothing 
but a small black dot on the horizon.

I strain my eyes until that small particle
vanishes and the setting is nothing more 
than an unassuming field, an alluring trap door
waiting to split open.


Amber Watson is a poet, freelance writer, food blogger, and a foster and adoptive parent residing in Durham, NC with her husband, teenager, and rescue animals. Her poetry has most recently been published by Constellations, Ligeia, and Analogies & Allegories. Find her online at amberwatson.net and on social at @awatsonwrites.

© 2022, Amber Watson

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