There is no thorn in my foot,
for which I am grateful,
but a dozen or more small prickles
make walking hard
… this is the season for soaking my skin,
drawing out the miniscule wounds,
inviting new cells to play at healing.
This day is for wallowing,
sand or water no matter,
and I can even answer the phone
without a hint of crazy unglue
or sounds of labour.
Like a doula at my own birth
I warm the water,
invite my nakedness at all levels,
create a warm humidity for waiting.
These contractions are the waves of my undoing,
the ripples of my nature moving through;
discomfort, yes, and pain,
and a willingness to ride a tide I don’t control.
The choice was set in motion long ago;
the soul-friends watch with noses at the glass
but this is mine to do,
and none can birth this for me,
and even I can do nothing
but surrender.