Back then, I could never fathom growth. Sunlight’s
urge to knee-high cornstalks, lanceolated leaves
unfurling to sheathes, stealth plants that conjure
their twelve-foot tasseled selves. Or how zinnias
kaleidoscoped, disc to pom-pom petals when I
looked away, fuchsia and orange flowers split
from the same stem, as if undecided about which
variety they wanted to claim. I am just beginning
to grasp the nuances of transformation, gentle
as an artist splashing shades of herself into a painting.
Becoming. Or, not –– An unblemished beach seamed
in sand and sea before it erupts in concrete pylons.
But a gnawing wind and salt spray spall pores
in cement until shoreline reemerges, undressed.
Subtle still frame changes that reveal refinement
when I adjust my mind’s aperture. My granddaughter
running, haloed in light. Her arms and legs pump
as if she wears invisible wings –– coordination
replacing wobbly tippy toes. The way I bite my lip
to stop the old argument that loves to drag us into
labyrinths. Grace nurtures the work of progress
the way we deadhead rosebushes, bound for bloom.
Perhaps that’s why I scan night skies looking for
new stars. Attracted to a universe in forward motion,
my body too, possessing the capacity to evolve.
Kathy Pon lives with her husband, a third-generation farmer, on an almond orchard in Central California. Her work has been featured in Passengers Journal, Canary, RockPaperPoem, The Closed Eye Open, and other places. Her chapbook, Orchard Language (Finishing Line Press) was published in October, 2025.