in my soul stands a farmer
and his annual crops are seeds
that yearlong
i roll through my fingers
feeling for imperfection and weakness
i am convinced that only the strongest
seeds will survive the fire
and even then i can't know

chaff falls away
he uses the most sensitive parts of my body
to search blindly for strength felt, not seen
i tell myself i'll know it when he feels it
and chaff falls away
until there's nothing left
but something soft and perfectly fallible
undeniably my ilk
he sighs and picks up the next
there is not nearly enough

it is a daily contradiction
that i only grow from what he's left behind
on the ground
and not from my most durable products
that i hide in my innermost pockets

and yet wildfire scent still permeates my lungs
and i still am searching for ground
that i will celebrate as i take to my knees
and that will embrace my most hopeful offers
into a forest that will not fear the smoke and fire

this is where the clearing is
where i will plant my last, best self
and something else will walk out
free and clear
inheritor of my love
protected from my weakness