It seems that Kaitlyn’s poetry throughout her life was very prophetic. The one’s I knew about when she was a teenager, the one’s she won awards for were also. However, I or any other adult, really saw what she was so obviously saying, just thinking it the musings of a teenager. I should have taken into account that she was no ordinary teenager and took it seriously, but I didn’t.
The poetry she wrote in her later teenaged years, I never saw because she never entered them into contests and they were rather private. I have only seen these when she died. However, once she got into undergrad, she had some published online on a college newsletter or something. I never knew about these as she never showed them to me and I never knew of their existence until I stumbled upon them online after she died. They were also prophetic.
But there is one in particular that is extremely prophetic and says so very much. If I had seen it when she wrote it, I probably still would have not been concerned, but seeing after her death makes me know how she felt.
I have posted this poem 2 or 3 times on this blog and other places, but I really don’t get that many comments except from one very intelligent, insightful man that lost his own very intelligent son almost a year ago. He knows exactly what it means. So I want to post it here again and hopefully some of you will understand the metaphors in this poem. They speak volumes. For some, you might just think she’s just talking about flowers, but she is not. I challenge you to understand the meaning. The poem speaks to me so loudly now and with each reading it gets louder. The lines of it are forever etched into my mind. Understand it. It’s very meaningful.
Falling Into Being by Kaitlyn Elkins
You, you with the clovers in your hair, your braided sun beams.
Flowers and winged things. How you’ll never know the species of them, but you know them by their colors–their tiny reflected sunlights. You call them cousins by their hues:
this one is robin red, this one is lily white. You touch them with your bluebird eyes.
What is the final truth, then? Is it that they live, that there’s beauty in existing as you are?
Before the sun had risen, you cupped your hands around your mouth and whispered to the spiraled bud of a morning glory: why will you bloom?
No answer until the morning, and then it unfurled its petals; its greeting to the day, to a lifetime.
You sat and watched this little being bloom with the magnificence of purpose. It was beautiful in its silence, in its pride.
You gave it the honor of breathing softly, of acknowledging its vulnerability. You knew it was weaker, less protected as a softly petaled bloom than as a bud.
You saluted its courage.
And when it died in the dusk of fading lights and fading colors, you stood in reverence as you do at the funeral of a man who lived well. Shed a tear but smiled in acceptance of a gift you never intended to receive.
And by morning, you had discerned the colors of yourself. You had fallen into being.