Sprout
I confess I am an idiot
who believes in luck
and the mania
of new projects.
If you drive these up
to the mountains
for the weekend,
they may grow
a sprout, and you may
be allowed a tinfoil hat
and a bird familiar.
Seek vortices
in rural fields,
finger the limbs
of young trees;
select one for
an amputation.
Strip away the bark,
the lichen: here
is a fine walking stick.
It sprouts in your hands
like it wanted
to be the tree
with its unstoppable
blossoms. Now nothing
will get in the way
of your dreams.
If it does,
you’ve got a stick
and can beat it.
Katherine Meehan lives in Reading. She’s recently received her Master’s in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford. Her poetry has appeared in Brittle Star and she is working towards her first collection.