It is not folly to be sick bodies breaking down stripping flesh from mind separating the viruses and germs from taking over like a plague devouring health like a sick game of wit.
But wit came and went and determination stayed like a whip breaking receding dissolving into the earth all pain vanished the moment love came into the picture bringing a sense of sensitivity, sensibility, belonging, grace, peacefulness, and harmony. The balance of nature is to be mature not unlike like manure becoming compost for flowers.
Something like sickness or suckness or swiftness can only be surface material marching forward getting stronger every day weakened by germs and viruses weakened by wanting weakened by longing to become something greater and grander than ever imagined.
To be sick is to surrender.
Is to lie in the wet dirt called mud and be covered by rain and leaves becoming mulch for the trees.
Wet. Withered. Weak and surviving.
And once the sickness passes, bodies grow sturdy become thick roots winding deeper into earth’s crust the inner and outer layers changing dust into mud into mulch into compost into sprouts into plants into gardens into parks there unto infinity back into dust and the beautiful cycle starts
all over again.
and the seasons come and go and the sickness comes and goes and the flowers and fruits and vegetables grow and grow and grow and grow and grow