The fear of letting go sits on me like a yoke.
Head bowed forward I pull
The weight of our history through the earth;
Roots snap, rich soil is laid bare,
Exposed to seed it cannot refuse.
But my glazed eyes come alive again,
I see the world;
I breathe its scent into my nostrils—
It flowers in my brain, opens my heart.
And the yoke, it is a fly on my skin.
I twitch a muscle and it takes off, lands again.
All the while the world is there.
(All the while the world is there.)