You conjure with your hands 
the knitting together of days,
finding comfort in simple tasks.
Small strands of hope 
have replaced every familiar note 
on the piano.  
 
We mourn the loss of normal.
We find new names for things.  
We rebirth ourselves 
as if planting trees. 
Digging deep with unsure feet,
beckoning growth,
we find solace in building a new forest together.  
 
Our hands look different,
more vulnerable.
Our fingers sift days
like flour. 
We move more slowly,
breathing through cloth
and appreciating oxygen 
like never before. 
We stitch ourselves together 
every morning 
with threads of resilience.
                        

Transcending pain—
allowing limbs to travel in another dimension,
the sweet, doleful breath of sleep.
 
I can only wonder
what my wellness looks like
in another world.
Moving freely,
beauty informs my every step.
My artwork sings joyfully—
no documentaries
of my tired, woman’s form.
 
I live inside the layers of color on canvas.
Trepidation only comes
when there is no easel or brush.
 
I live.  I live.  I live.
 
My eyes look out from orange and red campfires.
A beaded necklace frames vision,
the landscape of my story.
Walls covered with passion and history—
streaked with more than the heart reveals.
 
I share with you my secret,
like an unfurled flower in morning.
Unfold yourself.
Offer up your broken pieces
and be healed.

Thoughts are bones, 
long femurs waking us home
to the self.  
Our mouths speak smoke signals.  
We call out to the universe 
in earnest. 
Raindrops fall,
tapping us awake.
We enter the space of awareness. 
Words shared are medicine—
salve,
balm,
and bandage.
Each vowel rises to the ceiling, 
then falls.
Our minds are porous, 
drinking in every last nuance. 
What was once a dream 
of how life could be
becomes embedded in the skin.
It sings songs of acceptance.
Together, we wonder at our very existence,
dancing with our truest, naked selves.
We are not alone.