Healing again, though I had not felt myself break.
One minute I was great—the next in pieces, as these things often go.
Healing again, though clinging to pain is a comfortable state,
a bitter, empty plate that calls itself fruitful, truth.
Meanwhile my fires have gone cold from lack of tending and my dear ones have waited for so long.
”Come home,” they say, calling out to their lost one.
”Come home.”
My legs pull me closer, though I thrash and resist, clawing at the earth beneath my feet.
The earth, my mother, who loves me more than peace and gives me everything, bears my pain as if it is her own.
She wraps me in cocoon of love and does not let it break until the moment I am fully grown and can bear my own weight, until I can do the same for my children, and my children’s children.
Envelope them in the love we are all born to, from the moment we first wake.