when the earth doesn’t talk back

the sunlight on my

skin when my body is at

war, feels—grim, frantic.

as if I could try to unwind,

melt into calm.

But without even coming close.

As if I could jump off a bridge or a plane to reach a new depth.

Halting the inner turbulence that resists a longing for some somatic sensation.

I would sit on the edge of a rainbow and weep. Who weeps on rainbows?!

Inviting each layer of color to minister to my agony.

I skipped a stone upon a ditch with living surprises that can see me sitting there.

A soft shell turtle poked his nozzle

and I melted. It stung in the good kind of way.

A broken winged butterfly showed me more sunlight than I had seen in days.

They made the day real.

And still I pull strands of grass with my toes.

A clenched fist full of this confetti,

a primal celebration to establish relationship with my soul.

To connect with the ground—with something.

It’s not meeting me back, lately.

The sun provided euphoric dopamine,

that I fail to absorb while my limbic system is broken.

A wilted petal is my my spine

exposed—stripped of its garment,

even with my shirt on.

Waxing my bare soles against the bark of a tree stump,

surrendered wholly on my back

damp and frigidity.

Which that I can feel.

Because it begets discomfort.

Offering myself all the forfeiture at hand.

Receiving nothing in return.

Knots behind my ribs.

That’s anxiety.

But noticing the living,

and their nature to move without thought.

“To just keep swimming”

This is healing me.

The sun after the rain. It’s a cooler warmth.

One that was squeezed with something

different hiding in its breeze.

Whispering “we’re almost there.”