from cecilia's conversation on the phone
'Every cell in your body has a memory,
did n'tchyou know that mom?' she asks her.
And each has a specific gravity
and weight as to what she's carrying.
It's holding from this life,
from what we choose to hold onto
and from what is given.
It is an ache, an anaerobic acid
knotted up like sandstone,
composite of generations of sediment.
What would it mean to breathe in
this airy miracle we call the day?
To receive it as a gift,
to be carried away on its
winds and waters flowing like sunlight.
Where would we be when we
could throw our weighty burdens
of our parents at their feet,
and see where we are taken
without the layers of learned fear?
did n'tchyou know that mom?' she asks her.
And each has a specific gravity
and weight as to what she's carrying.
It's holding from this life,
from what we choose to hold onto
and from what is given.
It is an ache, an anaerobic acid
knotted up like sandstone,
composite of generations of sediment.
What would it mean to breathe in
this airy miracle we call the day?
To receive it as a gift,
to be carried away on its
winds and waters flowing like sunlight.
Where would we be when we
could throw our weighty burdens
of our parents at their feet,
and see where we are taken
without the layers of learned fear?