scraggly perfect skeleton tree
your curling spine rising
into the bones of me
if I stepped forward
would you reach out
encircle me in your arms
let me rest
against the smoother parts of you
slip into your softer spaces
curl soft fingers around me
on my lonely days?
๐บ๐ฆ๐ด
๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ฅ๐ข๐บ๐ด ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฐ
What I most love about poetry is that, like life, it can sit as one long question.
This poem was inspired by Saturdayโs Womenโs Circle, where the theme was ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ข๐ถ๐ต๐บ โ not as appearance, but as ๐ง๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ข๐ฌ๐ก๐ฆ๐๐ง๐ญ, ๐ซ๐๐ ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง and ๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐๐ง๐ญ๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐ญ๐จ๐ฐ๐๐ซ๐ ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐.
During the exercise, I wandered away from the group to give them space, trusting we would find each other again. I found myself standing in front of a scraggly skeleton tree, with a feeling of wanting to step forward and be comforted.
The ending of this poem (โyes / and on other days tooโ) is actually where the poem began. Itโs what I first heard, and the rest formed around it โ in an interplay between ๐ต๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฆ, ๐ฎ๐ฆ, ๐ต๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฆ.
PHOTO: Renata Harper
ยฉ 2026 WILD YOGA AFRICA
