What is buried brings you life.

She makes her way with sticks. Dirt is

never dirty, and bushes, bark and berries

hold universes of possibility. She digs.

What is buried brings you life.

She knows in the bones of
her being that the backyard swing
will bring her the sky, that she will
touch forever and always be free.

The effort is luxury, legs pumping
hard back and forth and longer
and lighter and every now and then a lift
off the hard plastic seat.

Trees in the yard are her familiar;

a constant conversation

of every spoken nothing/

never spoken everything

pulsing in the thrum of the hum

of wind and leaf and roots that

reach for truth deeper than eternity:

what is buried brings you life.

Stretched out on earth that scratches

bare skin, she breathes sun from the soil on

this small patch of grass she claims as her

throne. As above/so below.

There, in the deep of the deep and

the sky of the sky she swings. She sings.

She waits. Skinned knees/crooked

smile/wild hair. No apologies.

What is buried brings you life.