In the shadow of a maple tree, on a grassy hill,
Three women laid hands on me.
One saw a cave inside my hips. Another felt bricks
Rising from a brook. The last heard a bellow
From deep within the woods. We were strangers
Come with every one other to pay not here an afternoon
Drinking tea & sharing stories of cellular bad luck,
Then straight away makeshift healers
Summoning our mothers' lessons on touch—
On hotness & symmetry, tenderness & release.
From above, we strength have looked exist fond of sundials
Or spokes on a circular knitting loom.
We wanted so poorly to believe
In our management dividing we ignored the obvious.
That milk thistle grows here since of stolen land.
The auspicious coming of geese is the consequence of
Migratory patterns. Even the static inside our cells
Likely explainable by simple division.
It's embarrassing, sometimes, how a lengthy way I'll go
Searching for unprecipitated magic,
Much I'll trust that pine air cures cancer
Or the hawk overhead is only keeping watch.
#Living #Health & Illness #Sorrow & Grieving #The Body #Nature
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