My feet were set to ground
But I never really took root.

My limbs are shaking, raw, stretching up towards where the sun should be,
Searching for some kind of light to feed me.

The birds don't nest here.
My garden doesn't grow.

I'm waiting for the rain to soak my bones,
And bring with it a sign swept in from the ocean.

The wind sighs,
And ushers the years past with its gentle, guiding hand.

A new sun breaks the horizon, soft and slow,
And the landscape changes:

Color rushes through my veins,
Unhurried in the race.

The earth softens under torrential downpour,
And life floods.

I am planted where I stand.
Hunched and twisted, but slowly rising, open and offered up like a prayer.

Seeds are sowed and reaped,
Brought in close by the harvest.

The seasons pass in a tide of seizing and yielding,
But my eyes are open.

Around me, the garden is vast,
A lifetime in the growing.

And I'm here.
I'm here.
I'm here.