Wet, New

I brought home a fern from my walk in the woods

freedom doesn’t come quickly
I chip away at the fear

telling my truths
making my stands

a life-time later

I’m still walking the path in the rain
swimming through trees

I want to be wet,

like a bear
I rub my bare back
on the bark of a tree

more satisfying than a door jam
that rough wood on my mosquito bite

ferns feather-dust my shins
with fallen rain

the sharp edges of my truth
begin to soften
and melt into the curves
of my body

becoming familiar

Wet           New

I keep walking










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Full Moon Fiber Art