For days now I have lived inside, believing
what the dim told me,
stories of ease and motion.
Now stepping out onto the rain soaked porch,
the wood rough and surly underfoot,
I open my arms into air with no breath in it,
air with no yield.
The trees all wear the sun’s colors.
In the garden a forgotten herb
has gone to flower.
Suddenly I remember who I am.
How still it is,
how blooming and impossible.