Emerald Ease
A poem for the self I’m becoming
She does not claw,
nor chase.
She rests in sovereign stillness...
an axis of breath and bloom,
smelling of honeysuckle and warm stone,
watching monarchs make altars
of her open palms.
She is topography.
A living land.
Her spine,
a ridgeline crowned in wild sage.
Her silence
echoes with the hymns of cicadas,
the rustle of time
unwound.
There are no coffins here...
only canopy.
No flailing,
only flowering.
No scarcity,
only sun-warmed soil
and space for roots to wander.
Where Scarlett screamed in scarlet flame,
Emerald hums in chlorophyll and knowing.
She moves nothing.
She beckons all.
She does not beg to be chosen...
She is the choosing.
She is the sanctuary,
not the storm.
The exhale
after too many years
of holding breath.
In her presence,
my nervous system forgets
how to flinch.
My bones remember
what it means
to stay.
And I...
I am learning her language.
Not through noise,
but nuance.
Not by effort,
but emergence.
I no longer chase
the red of danger.
I lean
into the green of becoming.
Mme. Pamela McCreight 2025
