Garden of the Body
I have turned my ribcage into a field.
I confess, it floods sometimes. There are days when I'm all swamp
and no sunshine.
You can't tell water to leave no trace. Rings of damp are the consequence of the flood.
They are the marks left behind by rain.
You can't blame the water. The only thing it knows is itself.
Fields come before forests. I imagine the clearing between my lungs could flower
and fill with birds.
I confess, their wings beat in my chest so fast I feel like I'm flying.
But you can't tell birds to hold still. They look for seeds. They look for life.
And you cannot blame them for singing. The only song they know is their own.
The field brings the flood, and the flood brings the birds.
In time come trees.
Imagine the body turned to branches.
Imagine buds springing open into leaves.
You can't blame the trees for opening towards the light and these days,
these days, I am less swamp and more sunshine.
Where there is breath, there is life.
Where there is life...
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