You do not know the pain
of being green – reaching,
stretching, the tightness of skin.
You will not hear
the sound of my swelling
bud, the ripping
of my stem for each spike,
the flare of purple. I stir,
grip the earth,
push deep my roots. A stutter –
gasp of seeds. You will not feel
my splitting,
becoming brittle, brown.
I will not stifle
in gusts.
-Poem by Erica Jane Morris
Erica Jane Morris grew up in the South of England, studied Psychology at the University of Sussex and gained her doctorate at The Open University, UK. She works in higher education on degree standards. She holds an MA in Writing Poetry from the University of Newcastle and The Poetry School, London. ericajanemorris.co.uk