The Bluestone Review 2025

Poetry

Twisted Roots Kimberly Moon

Beneath the skin, a labyrinth of roots, Twisting through the darkened earth of bones, Curled betwixt memory of brokenness, Growing, still, despite the weight of thrones. Each twist, a lesson in the art of yielding, A curve, a scar, a choice of silent grace, This body, like the tree, refuses shielding, Stretching toward the sky, finding its place. Nerves sing their warnings in fractured lines, Yet reason drapes the pain in gentle hands, Tending to the cracks, tender vines, With consistency only the heart understands. I bend not for others, for myself I am bent, When the world demands, I hold my ground, Devotion laced with moments of abandonment, Learning to heal in oceans of present sound. My spine, like roots, woven in the soil, Twists are proof of resilience, not defeat, And in each tangle, strength is born of toil, A sacred dance of pleasure, pain, and heat. For the tree, as for the body, it’s all in the trunk, Alignment with the center where life begins, From the roots that feed, to the branches that hunt, For the sun, where every wind-borne twist spins. Yet deeper still, within the first embrace, Before the breath, before the awakening cry,

A cord, a river, a tether of grace, A spiral binding our earth to sky.

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