I lost count of days while aspen roots tickled
my brow, earthworms between my toes.
Encased in earth, so little memory to hold me
within the markers of the life I once knew.
What fertile truth unearthed me? What breath
filled my lungs once more and brought me here?
Nearly full moon tonight, November, sitting
on the floor, my skin craving cool moonlight.
How to reconcile loss with all that awaits,
this new body, everything reborn in each instant.
I kneel, and in my mind I count the bones
within this flesh, feel each link, each anchor.
And there are 207, an odd number, branches
upon which hangs this new flesh, unnamed.
Within my ribs an oracle stone,
a reminder of the transition, this change
that leaves me here, lacking context,
an amorphous being fused with becoming.