Volition by Trish Hopkinson

Twice my trunk engorged, distended                         stretching        bark to bend

            & gape, sap glistening in each crevice, ready to burst            out what begins new,

     organisms birthed of my own   volition. Two grew from me, their tethers & strides          

lengthening,      pulling elastic

            thin until at once

                                    a snap.     Then another. Eight years

                                                                                                between

                                                                                                                        makes it easier.

                                                                        Or does it? Mothering branches

            in odd directions, roots exposed trip up even the most agile kin—skinned knees

& caught cloth, ripped by a dead limb,          feeble where it breaks. Mistakes

                                                                                                                                    bandaged, torn

seams sewn, but do I tell them

                                                where tendencies come from?    I admit

            I may have helped them along or   hindered,   rather, by unruly root

or rigid bough. Should the apricots

                                                                        fallen to the ground, worm

                                                                                                infested, be pleasure enough if

                                                                                                                          picked before?

                                                                                              They soften in the bowl or dry

                                                                                    on the rooftop looking   out

                                                                        over my craggy, curling gray—where

                                                an early frost means no more fruit.

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Trish Hopkinson has always loved words—in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. A Pushcart-nominated poet, she is author of three chapbooks and has been published in several anthologies and journals, including Tinderbox, Pretty Owl Poetry, and The Penn Review. She is a product director by profession and resides in Utah with her handsome husband and their two outstanding children. You can follow Hopkinson on her blog where she shares information on how to write, publish, and participate in the greater poetry community at http://trishhopkinson.com/.