Essence of Being

My toes squirm like fat little worms through this moist soil they let go of their convolution; disconnect from the brain that tells them each day what they are and are not. Here they are just so. My hands grab like the beaks of birds these golden blades of grass let go of the rocks they carry; wipe clean the slate of crumbs they leave each day their way home to evidence – now left just so. My lungs burn with life a crisp morning air razors through them ecstatically. My eyes caress such fine tendrils of light called dusk and dawn and mystery. My ears collect an orchestra of locust song and wood bursting forth in a crackling warmth. My mouth kisses a saturated breeze impregnated with ocean and pine and flirtatious berries. Their juices stain my chin. These feelings stain my skin. And draw out pricks from parched follicles with neural fingers that trail over and into and through my being “this is it” My breath whispers carelessly in an ice-shackled cloud that veils my face with its truth. A maternal gesture of nature towards itself. For it is I and I surrender to this sensory onslaught. “this is it” Being alive is a wondrous wondrous thing.