Photo courtesy of ALTARWORK
Write the fire from your bones, she said.
As if the fever inside won’t break until I do.
I am the earth under plate tectonics; everything is shifting.
Somehow, the cornfields are a comfort, with their thin, starched stalks, bright wheat coloring the bottom of a ribbon-wrapped blue sky.
How I no longer race through the days to escape on an airplane and fly to the familiar, drape my skin in what my eyes and hands and feet know so well without even skipping a breath.
And my heart, coming through the black storm of my soul. Like the waters have receded, still damp remnants on the soil, but plenty of green plotted surprisingly in the garden of my chest. Tender and delicate, but faithfully digging in their roots.
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