A poem by Sarah Zwickle


My toddler draws
on the pages of my diary.
Bold lines—
strong willed,
loving, testing, pushing—
so much me
and not me.

Potent, heady lines
that lead me to the place
where words become soil,
rich and loamy and fragrant
from constant growth
and decay.

Lines that split hulls
like kindling.
A cleave
to fill
with fire, water,
and poetry.

Fathoms of roots
fill the pages now,
mycelial beauties
hyphae my breaking
support her curious
encourage our rain drenched
to be a lifeline
that sprouts from words
up and to the sun.

Always up and to the sun.

About the Author:

Sarah Zwickle is the mother of two daughters. She loves to ferment bread, compost, radishes, and ideas. Born in Oregon, raised in Washington, she now lives in Michigan where she writes about motherhood, compost, and science. She’s discovered new ways to cross water—on skis, paddleboards, and sailboats and dreams of sailing the North Channel someday. Please get in touch if you have a boat.

Website and Blog:



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