Blackbird

There manifests faces among patterns in this weird, wide world. I see faces — eyes, nose, mouth, a definite, sometimes a vague one, but a face.

I crumble into the weakest and grow hot and there opened in my skin wounds and pierced dots of pain and mess until I’m a flesh of acceptance: so curled up in bed I couldn’t move, so immobile I got cold, so cold I froze and thought I was hallucinating, so frozen in place (in time, not so much) I felt numb, so numb I decide in that moment to breathe and I breathe a kind of bravery, until I’m a flesh of acceptance.

In this cocoon of weakness and vulnerability, I hibernate, I grow strong — can be fast, can be slow — however You allow me to heal: nourished by slowness, by attention to leaves and their movement suspended in the air and the pattern of veins, energized and healed by healthy grains and sour taste and juicy extracts and leafy greens and water and beautiful sorts of nourishment from the soil, freshest of air I breathe deep, a kind of bravery, restored by the shadows of the trees and the light of unread books on the shelf, by taking things in their proper time, to rest, to sway in my cocoon of processing.

I will wake up, I will be replenished: disarmed from the unnecessary, to be light, bringing only my body of smoothness, my heart of strength, and fly this moment on.

No more faces.