Roots In My Palms

Watermelon juice paints a trail down my chin,

Dried by the sun’s glaring rays on my skin.

Sifting through the dirt like memories,

I watch ladybugs crawl and plump yellow bees.

I hear birds chirp, and my heart thumps, making a wish.

Tiny fingers grip the grass, ripping it free. 

Its roots take hold,

Etching lines on my palms,

Sprouting hair on my arms.

Now green is my favorite color,

and dirt-brown is my skin.

Now I'm closer to twenty than two,

Yet I still crouch in the earth,

watching things grow.

The serious perch of my brow, dried juice on my face,

It never fades. Like the lines on my palm,

The roots stay. These parts of me,

From when I was in the fork of my mother’s arms

To the crouch of death's embrace.

Aysha is a young Pakistani-American who has always dabbled in creative fields. Currently, she is studying Environmental Science and Restoration Ecology. In her writing, she explores themes of identity, the passage of time, and connections to nature.

Featured Image: Painting by ava noelle