Morphe

i am where between,
clinging 

have misunderstood 
the task, traced the lines 
of my mother's face

too long –

blooming beneath
a canopy; i, stemmed 

from dirt and runoff;
maybe will breaks,

maybe the sun slants
to see me like my father 
once did – i, with one hand
 
who gripped the ledge,
refusing

splitting roots
one here and one

unreachable, and who
with warmth like the night 

holds memory of heat,
stays time in its quiet
contemplation

of a dream - and have
i misunderstood the task - 

or am mercy, fully bloomed
within a spun cocoon,

stranded in hope.