Root Bound

The horizon might be as old as the soul itself—or even older—and as enduring. And, like the soul, it always lures us further into our own lives and into the great mystery of life itself. The horizon is an edge, a spirit edge. It does and does not exist. Or, more accurately, it does not exist in ordinary reality, for we can never reach it or touch it or stand there. Horizons keep moving away, challenging us to go further. ~from The Celtic Way of Seeing by Frank MacEowen

My poetic muse has returned to me full-force lately...I'm not sure why, but that's why there's been a flurry of poetry on my blog. I stopped writing for a long time when I first started my photography last year, but now the poems are coming again. I've been scribbling in my word journal and re-working poems like crazy. So, this week's Photo Art Friday came about because of the poem I wrote below, and also the quote above by Frank MacEowen about horizons (Bonnie's suggested prompt). I absolutely love the idea of a horizon being a "spirit edge". What a wonderful way of thinking about it! I wanted to try creating an image with a transparent flower that somehow showed a horizon. Change is hard, growth is hard...yet our souls, like flowers, continue to grow and bloom no matter what the elements are. They are always that silent whisper inside of us, encouraging us to push forward, to endure, to learn, to evolve. For this image I used two of my own photos - a macro white flower, and an image of the beach at Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. I also used Bonnie's "Dream Wonder" texture at Multiply/50%. Since my image is of a flower, I'm also linking up to Leanne's Flower Art Friday. Click on the buttons below to visit and see other lovely photo art!

ROOT BOUND

My aging body is root bound
Too small to contain
The growth my soul has made
She has overtaken my insides
Her pure roots invading
My ribs' open cages
Shooting like streamers
Through the empty spaces
Poking through curved bone
With her questionings

Startled, I clasp my chest
To grasp at a sprouting tendril
To caress a delicate petal
But I come up against skin
Knuckles raking against
The whorls of growth within
My pulse lies cocooned amidst her
Thick and tangled tenderness
My earthly breath is rich
With her soundless karma
And in the air around me
I exhale her silken perfume.

© Sherri Brannon