OctPoWriMo Day 12. Graft (A Contrapuntal)

OctPoWriMo Day 12. Microscopic Monsters

Example Poem: “Fear” by Khalil Gibran from YourDailyPoem

Fear

It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.
The river can not go back.

Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that’s where the river will know
it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean.

~Khalil Gibran

Prompt: Write a poem about something that becomes part of something else, like a river becomes part of the ocean, or a parasite becomes part of its host.

Possible form: A contrapunctal poem

~

[A prefatory note before you read the poem: So, I took the parasite and host suggestion as the starting point of my inspiration and went ahead from there. This contrapuntal poem uses grafting as a metaphor for becoming part of something larger. The “Scion” voice is the restless future... tender, risk-prone, full of imagined fruit. The “Rootstock” voice is the steady past... seasoned, drought-tested, keeper of memory. Read left, right, then across; the seam of the cut becomes a door, and the two voices learn a shared language. It’s less about disappearing and it’s more about union strong enough to bear fruit.]

Graft (A Contrapuntal)

Scion | Rootstock
I arrive with buds tight-fisted | I wait with rings that counted droughts
carrying a map of summers not yet born | holding the ledger of frosts already paid
cut clean at the heel, bright with fear | split open to receive, seasoned to stay
thirsting for a ladder of sap and light | patient as capillaries learning your name
I flinch at the blade that chose me | I trust the hand that harms to heal
I bring rumors of fruit the tongue imagines | I keep rumors of soil the bones remember
green is my grammar for tomorrow | gravity is my syntax for now
teach me the weather of stillness | teach me the weather of risk
I lean into your practiced heartbeat | I offer you my unspent pulse
call me future, trembling, provisional | call me ground, steady, invisible
tied to you with twine and breath | bound to you with bark and will
I become less “I” at the seam | you become more “we” at the seam

And across, the union speaks:

I arrive with buds tight-fisted carrying a map of summers not yet born, cut clean at the heel, bright with fear, thirsting for a ladder of sap and light.
I flinch at the blade that chose me; I bring rumors of fruit the tongue imagines... green is my grammar for tomorrow. Teach me the weather of stillness; I lean into your practiced heartbeat; call me future, trembling, provisional, tied to you with twine and breath; I become less “I” at the seam:
I wait with rings that counted droughts, holding the ledger of frosts already paid, split open to receive, seasoned to stay, patient as capillaries learning your name.
I trust the hand that harms to heal; I keep rumors of soil the bones remember... gravity is my syntax for now.
Teach me the weather of risk; I offer you my unspent pulse: call me ground, steady, invisible, bound to you with bark and will; you become more “we” at the seam.

Coda:
At the cambium’s whisper, the cut becomes a door;
through it, sap signs our shared signature: fruit.

~ Oizys.

[Some post-poem meanings and craft notes: 

Why grafting? The prompt asked for something that becomes part of something else. Grafting is both literal and ancient: a young branch (scion) is joined to an older trunk (rootstock). It’s change without amnesia and a new growth anchored in old endurance. 

It's two grammars, one sentence. The scion says, “green is my grammar for tomorrow”; the rootstock answers, “gravity is my syntax for now.” That’s the tension: aspiration vs. stability. Together, they make a language that can carry fruit (i.e., outcomes, art, legacy). 

It's harm that heals. “I trust the hand that harms to heal.” The cut is necessary; without the wound, there is no joining. Pain isn’t glorified, but it’s acknowledged as the doorway (“the cut becomes a door”). 

It's the weather of stillness / weather of risk. Each side asks for what it lacks. The future needs patience; the past needs courage. Integration means skills trade hands. It's identity shift. Lines like “I become less ‘I’ at the seam / you become more ‘we’” name the moment when ego gives way to shared purpose. So, like it was stated before, it is less about erasure, and more about reconfiguration. 

It's form echoes meaning. Contrapuntal form lets you read each column as a standalone poem (difference), and then read across for the blended voice (union). The structure enacts the theme: two discrete strands, one living braid. 

And, the Coda. “At the cambium’s whisper…” The cambium is the thin living layer in plants where growth happens. That’s where signatures merge, where what we remember (root) and what we hope (scion) ink the same name: fruit. 

A grafted love letter to tradition and risk: two voices cut, joined, and taught to fruit.]