I ask to be planted
into the earth
like an ancient
tree,

so that I may
shed my leaves
in the fall
and grow
new skin
every Spring

I envy the
Oak, Birch and
Ash, ancient
trunks that do
not stain with
the agony
that lingers
in the air

palpable

the rain
is full of
it and yet
they do not
wither and
decay

root me
in the dirt
so that I may
too, feel
pain

and survive it

I am slowly coming to peace with who I am.
And with what happened to me.
I still feel sad.
I still feel anxious.
Anxiety loves to sneak back in and push me around.
But I'm trying to stay positive.
Trying to keep an open mind.
I know the sun will rise tomorrow,
and I know that I will be okay.

A clarinet
brightening up
the night
in the cheerful
freedom
of it's numerous
variations,
makes the heart
light
as if it were
dancing
over fields of spring.