By Malia Thandiwe
Soul Pruning
Have you ever felt your soul?
Tended its roots,
gave room to its shoots,
mulched its base with fallen leaves.
Dried its fruit in the shade
and kept it clear of the battering rain,
only for it to wither
from too much care.
Did it need to be wild?
You wonder.
Trudging up the hill,
core braced, glutes in place,
past a common sight
of neglected dog wandering pristine hillside streets,
its bowels clogged up from sorrow.
The black road strives for blue sky,
stretching through herds of mountain flock bleating.
Cracked silence splatters like eggs vs. tarmac.
Supplicate the mountain for freedom and peace,
from self doubting your soul pruning.
As wild as a butterfly,
your withered soul
unpredictably flies,
as far as Mozambique,
as far as the Arctic,
through lifetimes.
Long Walks
Elusive as a shadow I cannot tame,
I hold in my body, Anger.
Smarting waist, hip, and heel,
feeling far from whom I am to be.
Fear difficult to let go of
as dusty tarmac under my boots,
the unending road at dusk where I mark time,
marching in place the distance between now and the horizon.
In my body I hold, Desire
plaintive as a minor chord,
bright as a major.
Plucking the thinnest string,
Dopamine breaks the dam of restraint,
flooding deep as resonance,
the furrows in my brain.
Malia Thandiwe is a poet inspired by films, music, nature, and books.
Image by Point and Shoot.
© 2026 Malia Thandiwe